**** 


CALIF. 


"0  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!" 


THE 


OP 


OSSIP   SCHUBIN 


L 


MBS.  A.  L.  WISTEB 


PHILADELPHIA 

J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY 
1897. 


Copyright,  1890,  by  J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COHPAHT. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  I.  PAG« 

A  MANUSCRIPT  MISAPPROPRIATED 9 

CHAPTER  II. 
THK  CONTENTS  or  THK  MANUBCBIPT 16 

CHAPTER  III. 
AN  ARRIVAL 115 

CHAPTER  IV. 
A  QUARREL 118 

CHAPTER  V. 
BABONESS  PAULA. 129 

CHAPTER  VI. 
ENTRAPPED 135 

CHAPTER  VII. 
AN  INVITATION 142 

CHAPTER  VIII. 
THE  SECRET 150 

CHAPTER  IX. 
AN  ENCOUNTER 154 

1*  5 


2133490 


6  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  X.  PACK 

A  GARRISON  TOWN 163 

CHAPTER  XL 
AN  OLD  FRIEND 169 

CHAPTER  XII. 
A  GRAVEYARD  IN  PARIS 178 

CHAPTER  XIII. 
AT  DOBROTSCHAU 186 

CHAPTER  XIV. 
OLGA 198 

CHAPTER  XV. 
COMRADES  AND  FRIENDS 206 

CHAPTER  XVI. 
LATO  TREURENBERO 217 

CHAPTER  XVII. 

MlSMATED 233 

CHAPTER  XVIII. 
A  FRIEND'S  ADVICE 245 

CHAPTER  XIX. 
FRAU  ROSA'S  BIRTHDAY 248 

CHAPTER  XX. 

KOMARITZ  AGAIN 258 

CHAPTER  XXL 
"PooB  LATO!" 268 

CHAPTER  XXII. 

HARRY'S  MUSINGS  .    271 


CONTENTS.  7 

CHAPTER  XXIII,  PAGE 

ZDENA  TO  THE  RESCUE 277 

CHAPTER  XXIV. 
A  SLEEPLESS  NIGHT 289 

CHAPTER  XXV. 
THE  CONFESSION 293 

CHAPTER  XXVI. 
THE  BARON'S  AID 801 

CHAPTER  XXVII. 
BARON  FRANZ .  .  , 812 

CHAPTER  XXVIII. 
A  SHORT  VISIT 817 

CHAPTER  XXIX. 
SUBMISSION 822 

CHAPTER  XXX. 
PERSECUTION 826 

CHAPTER  XXXI. 
CONSOLATION 831 

CHAPTER  XXXII. 
INTERRUPTED  HARMONY 836 

CHAPTER  XXXIII. 
EARLY  SUNRISE 841 

CHAPTER  XXXIV. 
STRUGGLES 845 

CHAPTER  XXXV. 
A  SLANDERER .    848 


8 

FAILURE  .  .  . 

CONTENTS. 
CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

FAOB 

,   ...    858 

A  VISIT  .  .  . 

CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

,   ...    371 

AT  LAST  .  .  . 

CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

,   .   .   .    381 

CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

,   ...    887 

CHAPTER  XL. 

,  ...    896 

CHAPTER  XLI. 

.    400 

CHAPTER  XLII. 
FOUND  . 404 

CHAPTER  XLIII. 
COTJNT  HANS 408 

CHAPTER  XLIV. 
SPRING 418 

CHAPTER  XLV. 
OLD  BARON  FRANZ .421 


"O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!1 


CHAPTEK   I. 

A   MANUSCRIPT   MISAPPROPRIATED. 

" KRUPITSCHKA,  is  it  going  to  rain?"  Major  von 
Leskjewitsch  asked  his  servant,  who  had  formerly 
been  his  corporal.  The  major  was  leaning  out  of  a 
window  of  his  pretty  vine-wreathed  country-seat, 
smoking  a  chibouque;  Krupitschka,  in  the  garden 
below,  protected  by  a  white  apron,  and  provided  with  a 
dark-green  champagne-bottle,  was  picking  the  Spanish 
flies  from  off  the  hawthorn-bushes.  At  his  master's 
question,  he  looked  up,  gazed  at  a  few  clouds  on  the 
horizon,  replied,  "  Don't  know — maybe,  and  then  again 
maybe  not,"  and  deftly  entrapped  three  victims  at 
once  in  the  long  neck  of  his  bottle.  A  few  days  pre- 
vious he  had  made  a  very  satisfactory  bargain  with 
the  apothecary  of  the  neighbouring  little  town  for 
Spanish  flies. 

"Ass!  Have  you  just  got  back  from  the  Delphio 
oracle?"  the  major  exclaimed,  angrily,  turning  away 
from  the  window. 

At  the  words  "  Delphic  oracle,"  Krupitschka  pricked 

9 


10  "O  THOU,  MF  AUSTRIA  I" 

up  his  ears.  It  annoyed  him  to  have  his  master  and 
the  other  gentlemen  make  use  of  words  that  he  did 
not  understand,  and  he  determined  to  buy  a  foreign 
dictionary  with  the  proceeds  of  the  sale  of  his  can- 
tharides.  Meanwhile,  he  noted  down,  in  a  dilapidated 
memorandum-book,  "  delphin  wrackle,"  muttering  the 
while,  "  What  sort  of  team  is  that,  I  wonder  ?" 

Unable  to  extort  any  prognosis  of  the  weather  from 
Krupitscbka,  the  major  turned  to  the  barometer;  but 
that  stood,  as  it  had  done  uninterruptedly  for  the  past 
fortnight,  at '  Changeable.' 

"  Blockhead  I"  growled  the  major,  shaking  the  barom- 
eter a  little  to  rouse  it  from  its  lethargy;  and  then, 
seating  himself  at  the  grand  piano,  he  thundered  away 
at  a  piece  of  music  familiar  to  all  the  country  round 
as  "  The  Major's  Triumphal  March."  All  the  country 
round  was  likewise  familiar  with  the  date  of  the  origin 
of  this  effective  work, — the  spring  of  1866. 

At  that  time  the  major  had  composed  this  march 
•with  the  patriotic  intention  of  dedicating  it  to  the  vic- 
torious General  Benedek,  but  the  melancholy  events 
of  the  brief  summer  campaign  left  him  no  desire  to  do 
BO,  and  the  march  was  never  published ;  nevertheless, 
the  major  played  it  himself  now  and  then,  to  his  own 
immense  satisfaction  and  to  the  horror  of  his  really 
musical  wife. 

This  wife,  a  Northern  German  by  birth,  fair  and 
dignified  in  appearance,  sat  rocking  comfortably  in  an 
American  chair,  reading  the  latest  number  of  the 
German  Illustrated  News,  while  her  husband  amused 
himself  at  the  piano. 


«O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  H 

The  major  banged  away  at  the  keys  in  a  fury  of 
enthusiasm,  until  a  black  poodle,  which  had  crept 
under  the  piano  in  despair,  howled  piteously. 

"  Ah,  Paul,"  sighed  Frau  von  Leskjewitsch,  letting  her 
paper  drop  in  her  lap,  "are  you  determined  to  make 
my  piano  atone  for  the  loss  of  the  battle  of  Koniggratz  ?" 

"  Why  do  you  have  a  foreign  piano,  then  ?"  was  the 
patriotic  reply ;  and  the  major  went  on  strumming. 

"You  make  Mori  wretched,"  his  wife  remarked; 
"that  dog  is  really  musical." 

"A  nervous  mongrel — a  genuine  lapdog,"  the  major 
muttered,  contemptuously,  without  ceasing  his  per- 
formance. 

"Your  march  is  absolutely  intolerable,"  Frau  von 
Leskjewitsch  said  at  last. 

"But  if  it  were  only  by  Richard  "Wagner — "  the 
major  remarked,  significantly:  "of  course  you  Wag- 
nerites  do  not  admit  even  the  existence  of  any  com- 
poser except  your  idol." 

With  this  he  left  the  piano,  and,  with  his  thumbs 
stuck  into  the  armholes  of  his  vest,  began  to  pace  the 
apartment  to  and  fro. 

There  was  quite  space  enough  for  him  to  do  so,  for 
the  room  was  large  and  its  furniture  scanty.  Nowhere 
was  he  in  any  danger  of  stumbling  over  a  plush  table 
loaded  with  bric-a-brac,  or  a  dwarf  arm-chair,  or  any 
other  of  the  ornaments  of  a  modern  drawing-room. 

The  stock  of  curios  in  the  house — and  it  was  by  no 
means  inconsiderable,  consisting  of  exquisite  figures 
and  groups  of  Louisburg,  Meissen,  and  old  Viennese 
porcelain,  of  seventeenth-century  fans,  and  of  thor- 


12  "O  THOU,  My  AUSTRIA!" 

oughly  useless  articles  of  ivory  and  silver — was  all  ar- 
ranged in  two  antique  glass  cabinets,  standing  in  such 
extremely  dark  corners  that  their  contents  could  not 
be  seen  even  at  mid-day  without  a  candle. 

Baroness  Leskjewitsch  hated  everything,  as  she  was 
wont  to  express  herself,  that  was  useless,  that  gathered 
dust,  and  that  was  in  the  way. 

In  accordance  with  the  severe  style  of  the  furniture, 
perfect  order  reigned  everywhere,  except  that  in  an 
arm-chair  lay  an  object  in  striking  contrast  to  the  rest 
of  the  apartment, — a  brown  work-basket  about  as  large 
as  a  common-sized  portmanteau.  It  lay  quite  forlornly 
upon  one  side,  like  a  sailing-vessel  capsized  by  the  wind. 

The  major  paused,  looked  at  the  basket  with  an 
odd  smile,  and  then  could  not  resist  the  temptation  to 
rummage  in  it  a  little. 

His  wife  always  maintained  that  he  was  something 
of  a  Paul  Pry ;  and  perhaps  she  was  right. 

"Ah!"  he  exclaimed,  dragging  to  light  a  piece  of 
embroidery  upon  Japanese  canvas.  "  The  first  design 
for  a  cushion — the  17th  is  my  birthday.  What  little 
red  book  is  this  ? — '  Maximes  de  La  Eochefoucauld'— 
don't  know  him.  And  here — why,  only  look  I"  He 
pulled  out  a  package  tied  with  blue  ribbon.  "A 
manuscript  1  It  seems  that  Zdena  has  leanings  to  au- 
thorship I  H'm — h'ml  When  a  girl  like  our  Zdena 
takes  to  such  ways,  it  is  usually  a  sign  that  she  feels 
impelled  to  confide  in  a  roundabout  way,  to  paper, 
something  which  nothing  could  induce  her  to  confess 
frankly  to  any  living  being.  H'm  I  I  really  am  curious 
to  know  what  goes  on  in  that  whimsical,  childish  brain. 


«O  THO  U,  MY  A  VSTRIA  I"  13 

" '  My  Memoirs  I' "  The  major  pulled  aside  the  blue 
ribbon  that  held  the  package  together.  "A  motto! 
Two  mottoes! — a  perfect  luxe  of  mottoes!"  he  mur- 
mured, and  then  read  out  aloud,— 

'Whether  you  marry  or  not,  you  will  always  repent  it.' 

PLATO. 
Then  comes, — 

'Should  you  marry,  then  be  sure 
Life's  sorest  ills  you  must  endure.' 

LKRMOMTOW. 

'  L'amour,  c'est  le  grand  moteur  de  toutes  lea  b£tises  hnmaines.' 

G.  SAND. 

I  really  should  not  have  supposed  that  our  Zdena  had 
already  pondered  the  marriage  problem  so  deeply,"  he 
said,  gleefully ;  then,  contemplating  with  a  smile  the 
mass  of  wisdom  scribbled  in  a  bold,  dashing  hand- 
writing, he  added,  "there  seems  to  be  more  going  on 
in  that  small  brain  than  we  had  suspected.  "What 
do  you  think,  Kosel  ?  may  not  Zdena  possibly  have  a 
weakness  for  Harry  ?" 

"Nonsense!"  replied  the  Baroness.  She  was  evi- 
dently somewhat  annoyed, — first,  because  her  husband 
had  roused  her  from  a  pleasant  nap,  or,  rather,  dis- 
turbed her  in  the  perusal  of  an  article  upon  Grecian 
excavations,  and  secondly,  because  he  had  called  her 
Kosel.  Her  real  name  was  Eosamunda,  a  name  of 
which  she  was  very  proud ;  she  really  could  not,  even 
after  almost  twenty  years  of  married  life,  reconcile 
herself  to  her  husband's  thus  robbing  it  of  all  its 
poetry.  "Nonsense!"  she  exclaimed,  with  some  temper. 
"  I  have  a  very  different  match  in  view  for  her." 

2 


14  "  O  THOU,  MY  A  USTRIA  /" 

"  I  did  not  ask  you  what  you  had  in  view  for  Zdena," 
the  major  observed,  contemptuously.  "  I  know  that 
without  asking.  I  only  wish  to  know  whether  during 
your  stay  in  Vienna  you  did  not  notice  that  Zdena 
had  taken  a  liking  to  " 

"Oh,  Zdena  is  far  too  sensible,  and,  if  I  am  not 
greatly  mistaken,  also  too  ambitious,  to  dream  of 
marrying  Harry.  She  knows  that  Harry  would  ruin 
his  prospects  by  a  marriage  with  her,"  Frau  von 
Leskjewitsch  continued.  "  There's  no  living  upon  love 
and  air  alone." 

"Nevertheless  there  are  always  some  people  who 
insist  upon  trying  it,  although  the  impossibility  has 
long  been  demonstrated,  both  theoretically  and  practi- 
cally," growled  the  major. 

"  And,  aside  from  all  that,  Harry  is  not  at  all  the 
husband  for  your  niece,"  Frau  Eosamunda  went  on, 
didactically.  "  She  is  wonderfully  well  developed  in- 
tellectually, for  her  age.  And  he — well,  he  is  a 
very  good  fellow,  I  have  nothing  to  say  against  him, 
but " 

"'A  very  good  fellow'!  I  should  like  to  know- 
where  you  could  find  me  a  better,"  cried  the  major. 
"  In  the  first  place,  he  is  as  handsome  as  a  man  can 
be " 

"  As  if  beauty  in  a  man  were  of  any  importance  1" 
Frau  von  Leskjewitsch  remarked,  loftily. 

Paying  no  attention  to  this  interruption,  the  major 
went  on  reckoning  up  his  favourite's  advantages,  in 
an  angry  crescendo.  "He  rides  like  a  centaur  1"  he 
declared,  loudly,  and  the  comparison  pleased  him  so 


"  O  THOU,  MY  A  USTR1A  I"  15 

much  that  he  repeated  it  twice, — "  yes,  like  a  centaur ; 
he  passed  his  military  examinations  as  if  they  had 
been  mere  play,  and  he  is  considered  one  of  the  most 
brilliant  and  talented  officers  in  the  army.  He  is  a 
little  quick-tempered,  but  he  has  the  best  heart  in  the 
world,  and  he  has  been  in  love  with  Zdena  since  he 
was  a  small  boy ;  while  she " 

"Let  me  advise  you  to  lower  your  voice  a  little," 
said  Frau  Rosamunda,  going  to  the  window,  which  she 
partly  closed. 

"  Stuff!"  muttered  her  husband. 

"  As  you  please.  If  you  like  to  make  Zdena  a  sub- 
ject for  gossip,  you  are  quite  free  to  do  so,  only  I 
would  counsel  you  in  that  case  to  consult  your  crony 
Krupitschka.  He  has  apparently  not  lost  a  single 
word  of  your  harangue.  I  saw  him  from  the  window 
just  now,  staring  up  here,  his  mouth  wide  open,  and 
the  Spanish  flies  crawling  out  of  his  bottle  and  up  his 
sleeves." 

"With  which  words  and  a  glance  of  dignified  dis- 
pleasure, Frau  Rosamunda  left  the  room. 

"  H'm !  perhaps  I  was  wrong,"  thought  the  major : 
"women  are  keener  in  such  matters  than  we  men. 
'Tis  desirable  I  should  be  mistaken,  but — I'd  wager  my 

gelding's  forefoot, — no "  He  shook  his  head,  and 

contemplated  the  manuscript  tied  up  with  blue  ribbon. 
"Let's  see,"  he  murmured,  as  he  picked  it  up  and 
carried  it  off  to  his  smoking-room. 


16  "O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA  1" 

CHAPTER   II. 

THE  CONTENTS  OP  THE  MANUSCRIPT. 

MAJOR  PAUL  VON  LESKJEWITSCH,  proprietor  of  the 
estates  of  Lauschitz  and  Zirkow  in  southwestern  Bo- 
hemia, had  been  for  twenty  years  on  the  retired  list, 
and  was  a  prosperous  agriculturist.  He  had  formerly 
been  a  very  well-to-do  officer,  the  most  steady  and 
trustworthy  in  the  whole  regiment,  always  in  funds, 
and  very  seldom  in  scrapes. 

In  his  youth  he  had  often  been  a  target  for  Cupid's 
arrows,  a  fact  of  which  he  himself  was  hardly  aware. 

"  What  an  ass  I  was !"  he  was  wont  to  exclaim  to  his 
cousin,  Captain  Jack  Leskjewitsch,  when  on  occasion 
the  pair  became  confidential  at  midnight  over  a  glass 
of  good  Bordeaux.  The  thought  of  his  lost  oppor- 
tunities as  a  lover  rather  weighed  upon  the  worthy 
dragoon. 

In  his  regiment  he  had  been  very  popular  and  had 
made  many  friends,  but  with  none  of  them  had  he  been 
BO  intimate  as  with  his  corporal  Krupitschka.  There 
was  a  rumour  that  before  the  major's  wooing  of  his 
present  wife,  a  Fraulein  von  Bosedow,  from  Pomerania, 
he  had  asked  this  famulus  of  his,  "  Eh,  Krupitschka, 
what  do  you  think  ?  Shall  we  marry  or  not  ?" 

Fortunately,  this  rumour  had  never  reached  the  ears 
of  the  young  lady,  else  she  might  have  felt  it  her  duty 
to  reject  the  major,  which  would  have  been  a  pity. 


"0  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA  1"  17 

In  blissful  ignorance,  therefore,  she  accepted  hia  pro- 
posal, after  eight  days  of  prudent  reflection,  and  three 
months  later  Baron  Leskjewitsch  led  her  to  the  altar. 

Of  course  he  was  utterly  wretched  during  the  pro- 
longed wedding  festivities,  and  at  least  very  uncomfort- 
able during  the  honey-moon,  which,  in  accordance  with 
the  fashion  of  the  day,  he  spent  with  his  bride  in  rail- 
way-carriages, inns,  churches,  picture-galleries,  and  so 
forth.  In  truth,  he  was  terribly  bored,  tided  himself 
over  the  pauses  which  frequently  occurred  in  his  con- 
versations with  his  bride  by  reading  aloud  from  the 
guide-book,  took  cold  in  the  Colosseum,  and — breathed 
a  sigh  of  relief  when,  after  all  the  instructive  expe- 
riences of  their  wedding-tour,  he  found  himself  com- 
fortably established  in  his  charming  country-seat  at 
Zirkow. 

At  present  the  Paul  Leskjewitsches  had  long  been 
known  for  a  model  couple  in  all  the  country  round. 
Countess  Zelenitz  stoutly  maintained  that  they  were 
the  least  unhappy  couple  of  her  acquaintance, — that 
they  were  past-masters  of  their  art;  she  meant  the 
most  difficult  of  all  arts, — that  of  getting  along  with 
each  other. 

As  every  piece  of  music  runs  on  in  its  own  peculiar 
measure,  one  to  a  joyous  three  crotchets  to  the  bar, 
another  to  a  lyrically  languishing  and  anon  archly 
provocative  six-quaver  time,  and  so  on,  the  married 
life  of  the  Leskjewitsches  was  certainly  set  to  a  slow 
four  crotchets  to  the  bar, — or  "  common  time,"  as  it  is 
called. 

husband,  besides  agriculture,  and  his  deplorable 
6  2* 


18  "O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA  I" 

piano  performances,  cultivated  a  certain  hypochondriac 
habit  of  mind,  scrutinized  the  colour  of  his  tongue 
very  frequently,  and,  although  in  spite  of  his  utmost 
efforts  he  was  quite  unable  to  discover  a  flaw  in  his 
health,  tried  a  new  patent  tonic  every  year. 

The  wife  cultivated  belles-lettres,  devoted  some  time 
and  attention  to  music,  and  regulated  her  domestic 
affairs  with  punctilious  order  and  neatness. 

The  only  fault  Leskjewitsch  had  to  find  with  her 
was  that  she  was  an  ardent  admirer  of  Wagner,  and 
hence  quite  unable  to  appreciate  his  own  talent  as  a 
composer ;  while  she,  for  her  part,  objected  to  his  inti- 
macy with  Krupitschka  and  with  the  stag-hounds. 
These,  however,  were  mere  bagatelles.  The  only  real 
sore  spot  in  this  marriage  was  the  luck  of  children. 

The  manner  in  which  fate  indemnified  these  two 
people  by  bestowing  upon  them  a  delightful  companion 
in  the  person  of  a  niece  of  the  major's  can  best  be 
learned  from  the  young  lady  herself,  in  whose  memoirs, 
with  an  utter  disregard  of  the  baseness  of  such  con- 
duct, the  major  has  meanwhile  become  absorbed. 


MY  MEMOIRS. 
I. 

It  rains — ah,  how  it  rains! — great  drops  following 
one  another,  and  drenching  the  garden  paths,  plash — 
plash  in  all  the  puddles!  Never  a  sunbeam  to  call 


"0  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA /»  19 

forth  a  rainbow  against  the  dark  sky,  never  a  gleam 
of  light  in  the  dull  slaty  gray.  It  seems  as  if  the  skies 
could  never  have  done  weeping  over  the  monotony  of 
existence — still  the  same — still  the  same ! 

I  have  tried  everything  by  way  of  amusement.  I 
curled  Mori's  hair  with  the  curling-tongs.  I  played 
Chopin's  mazurkas  until  my  brain  reeled.  I  even 
went  up  to  the  garret,  where  I  knew  no  one  could  hear 
me,  and,  in  the  presence  of  an  old  wardrobe,  where 
uncle's  last  uniform  as  a  lieutenant  was  hanging,  and 
of  two  rusty  stove-pipes,  I  declaimed  the  famous 
monologue  from  the  "  Maid  of  Orleans." 

"  Oh,  I  could  tear  my  hair  with  vexation !"  as  Valen- 
tine says.  I  read  Faust  a  while  ago, — since  last  spring 
I  have  been  allowed  to  read  all  our  classics, — and 
Faust  interested  me  extremely,  especially  the  prologue 
in  heaven,  and  the  first  monologue,  and  then  the  walk. 
Ah,  what  a  wonderful  thing  that  walk  is!  But  the 
love-scenes  did  not  please  me.  Gretchen  is  far  too 
meek  and  humble  to  Faust.  "  Dear  God !  How  ever  is 
it  such  a  man  can  think  and  know  so  much  ?" 

My  voice  is  very  strong  and  full,  and  I  think  I  have  a 
remarkable  talent  for  the  stage.  I  have  often  thought 
of  becoming  an  actress,  for  a  change ;  to — yes,  it  must 
out — to  have  an  opportunity  at  last  to  show  myself  to 
the  world, — to  be  admired.  Miss  O'Donnel  is  always 
telling  me  I  was  made  to  be  admired,  and  I  believe  she 
is  right.  But  what  good  does  that  do  me?  I  think 
out  all  kinds  of  things,  but  no  one  will  listen  to  them, 
especially  now  that  Miss  O'Donnel  has  gone.  She  seemed 
to  listen,  at  all  events,  and  every  now  and  then  would 


•    20  "0  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!" 

declare,  "  Child,  you  are  a  wonder  1"  That  pleased  me. 
But  she  departed  last  Saturday,  to  pay  a  visit  to  her 
relatives  in  Italy.  Her  niece  is  being  educated  there 
for  an  opera-singer.  Since  she  went  there  is  no  one  in 
whom  I  can  confide.  To  be  sure,  I  love  Uncle  Paul 
and  Aunt  Eosamunda  dearly, — much  more  dearly  than 
Miss  O'Donnel ;  but  I  cannot  tell  them  whatever  hap- 
pens to  come  into  my  head.  They  would  not  under- 
stand, any  more  than  they  understand  how  a  girl  of 
my  age  can  demand  more  of  life  than  if  she  were  fifty 
— but  indeed 

Rain — rain  still  I  Since  I've  nothing  else  to  do,  I'll 
begin  to-day  to  write  my  memoirs ! 

That  sounds  presumptuous — the  memoirs  of  a  girl 
whose  existence  flows  on  between  Zirkow  and  Koma- 
ritz.  But,  after  all,— 

"  Where'er  yon  grasp  this  human  life  of  ours 
In  its  full  force,  be  sure  'twill  interest;" 

which  means,  so  far  as  I  can  understand,  that,  if  one 
has  the  courage  to  write  down  one's  personal  observa- 
tions and  recollections  simply  and  truthfully,  it  is  sure 
to  be  worth  the  trouble. 

I  will  be  perfectly  frank;  and  why  not? — since  I 
write  for  myself  alone. 

But  that's  false  reasoning ;  for  how  many  men  there 
are  who  feign  to  themselves  for  their  own  satisfac- 
tion, bribing  their  consciences  with  sophistry  I  My 
conscience,  however,  sleeps  soundly  without  morphine; 
I  really  believe  there  is  nothing  for  it  to  do  at  present. 
I  can  bo  frank  because  I  have  nothing  to  confess. 


"0   THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  21 

Every  Easter,  before  confession,  I  rack  my  brains  to 
scrape  together  a  few  sins  of  some  consequence,  and 
I  can  find  nothing  but  unpunctuality  at  prayers,  pert- 
ness,  and  too  much  desire  for  worldly  frivolities. 

Well !  Now,  to  begin  without  further  circumlocu- 
tion. Most  people  begin  their  memoirs  with  the  his- 
tory of  their  grandparents,  some  with  that  of  their 
great-grandparents,  seeming  to  suppose  that  the  higher 
they  can  climb  in  their  genealogical  tree  the  more  it 
adds  to  their  importance.  I  begin  simply  with  the 
history  of  my  parents. 

My  father  and  mother  married  for  love ;  they  never 
repented  their  marriage,  and  yet  it  was  the  ruin  of 
both  of  them. 

My  father  was  well  born ;  not  so  my  mother.  Born 
in  Paris,  the  daughter  of  a  needy  petty  official,  she 
was  glad  to  accept  a  position  as  saleswoman  in  one 
of  the  fashionable  Paris  shops.  Poor,  dear  mamma! 
It  makes  me  wretched  to  think  of  her,  condemned  to 
make  up  parcels  and  tie  up  bundles,  to  mount  on  step- 
ladders,  exposed  to  the  impertinence  of  capricious  cus- 
tomers, who  always  want  just  what  is  not  to  be  had, — 
all  in  the  stifling  atmosphere  of  a  shop,  and  for  a  mere 
daily  pittance. 

Nothing  in  the  world  vexes  me  so  much  as  to  have 
people  begin  to  whisper  before  me,  glancing  at  me 
compassionately  as  they  nod  their  heads.  My  ears  are 
very  acute,  and  I  know  perfectly  well  that  they  are 
talking  of  my  poor  mother  and  pitying  me  because 
my  father  married  a  shop-girl.  I  feel  actually  boiling 
with  rage.  Young  as  I  was  when  I  lost  her,  she  still 


22  "  O  THOU,  MY  A  USTRIA  I" 

lives  in  my  memory  as  the  loveliest  creature  I  have 
ever  met  in  my  life. 

Tall  and  very  slender,  but  always  graceful,  perfectly 
natural  in  manner,  with  tiny  hands  and  feet,  and  large, 
melancholy,  startled  eyes,  in  a  delicate,  old-world  face, 
she  looked  like  an  elf  who  could  not  quite  comprehend 
why  she  was  condemned  to  carry  in  her  breast  so  large 
a  human  heart,  well-nigh  breaking  with  tenderness 
and  melancholy.  I  know  I  look  like  her,  and  I  am 
proud  of  it.  Whenever  I  am  presented  to  one  of  my 
couple  of  hundred  aunts  whose  acquaintance  I  am 
condemned  to  make,  she  is  sure  to  exclaim,  "How 
very  like  Fritz  she  is ! — all  Fritz !"  And  I  never  fail 
to  rejoin,  "Oh,  no,  I  am  like  my  mother;  every  one 
who  knew  her  says  I  am  like  mamma." 

And  then  my  aunts'  faces  grow  long,  and  they  think 
me  pert. 

Although  I  was  scarcely  six  years  old  when  Uncle 
Paul  took  us  away  from  Paris,  I  can  remember  dis- 
tinctly my  home  there.  It  was  in  a  steep  street  in 
Montmartre,  very  high  up  on  the  fourth  or  fifth  floor 
of  a  huge  lodging-house.  The  sunlight  shone  in  long 
broad  streaks  into  our  rooms  through  the  high  win- 
dows, outside  of  which  extended  an  iron  balcony.  Our 
rooms  were  very  pretty,  very  neat,  but — very  plain. 
Papa  did  not  seem  to  belong  to  them ;  I  don't  know 
how  I  discovered  this,  but  I  found  it  out,  little  as  I 
was.  The  ceilings  looked  low,  when  he  rose  from  the 
rocking-chair,  where  he  loved  to  sit,  and  stood  at  his 
full  height.  He  always  held  his  head  gaily,  high  in 


"0  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA  I"  23 

the  air,  never  bowing  it  humbly  to  suit  his  modest 
lodgings. 

His  circumstances,  cramped  for  the  time,  as  I  learned 
later,  by  his  imprudent  marriage,  contracted  in  spite 
of  his  father's  disapproval,  apparently  struck  him  as 
a  good  joke,  or,  at  the  worst,  as  a  passing  annoyance. 
He  always  maintained  the  gay  humour  of  a  man  of 
rank  who,  finding  himself  overtaken  by  a  storm  upon 
some  party  of  pleasure,  is  obliged  to  take  refuge  in  a 
wretched  village  inn. 

Now  and  then  he  would  stretch  out  his  arms  as  if  to 
measure  the  smallness  of  his  house,  and  laugh.  But 
mamma  would  cast  down  her  large  eyes  sadly;  then 
he  would  clasp  her  to  his  breast,  kiss  her,  and  call  her 
the  delight  of  his  life ;  and  I  would  creep  out  of  the 
corner  where  I  had  been  playing  with  my  dolls,  and 
pluck  him  by  the  sleeve,  jealously  desirous  of  my  share 
of  caresses. 

In  my  recollection  of  my  earliest  childhood — a  recol- 
lection without  distinct  outlines,  and  like  some  sweet, 
vague  dream  lingering  in  the  most  secret,  cherished 
corner  of  my  heart — everything  is  warm  and  bright ; 
it  is  all  light  and  love ! 

Papa  is  almost  always  with  us  in  our  sunny  little 
nest.  I  see  him  still, — ah,  how  plainly ! — leaning  back 
in  his  rocking-chair,  fair,  with  a  rather  haughty  but 
yet  kindly  smile,  his  eyes  sparkling  with  good- 
humoured  raillery.  He  is  smoking  a  cigarette,  and 
reading  the  paper,  apparently  with  nothing  in  the 
world  to  do  but  to  enjoy  life;  all  the  light  in  the 
little  room  seems  to  come  from  him. 


24  "O  THOU,  MF  AUSTRIA r" 

The  first  four  years  of  my  life  blend  together  in  my 
memory  like  one  long  summer  day,  without  the  small- 
est cloud  in  the  blue  skies  above  it. 

I  perfectly  remember  the  moment  in  which  my 
childish  happiness  was  interrupted  by  the  first  disagree- 
able sensation.  It  was  an  emotion  of  dread.  Until 
then  I  must  have  slept  through  all  the  hours  of  dark- 
ness, for,  when  once  I  suddenly  wakened  and  found 
the  light  all  gone,  I  was  terrified  at  the  blackness 
above  and  around  me,  and  I  screamed  aloud.  Then  I 
noticed  that  mamma  was  kneeling,  sobbing,  beside  my 
bed.  Her  sobs  must  have  wakened  me.  She  lighted  a 
candle  to  soothe  me,  and  told  me  a  story.  In  the  midst 
of  my  eager  listening,  I  asked  her,  "  Where  is  papa  ?" 

She  turned  her  head  away,  and  said,  "Out  in  the 
world  I" 

"  Out  in  the  world "  "Whether  or  not  it  was  the 

tone  in  which  she  pronounced  the  word  "world,"  I 
cannot  tell,  but  it  has  ever  since  had  a  strange  sound 
for  me, — a  sound  betokening  something  grand  yet 
terrible. 

Thus  I  made  the  discovery  that  there  were  nights, 
and  that  grown-up  people  could  cry. 

Soon  afterwards  it  was  winter;  the  nights  grew 
longer,  the  days  shorter,  and  it  was  never  really  bright 
in  our  home  again, — the  sunshine  had  vanished. 

It  was  cold,  and  the  trees  in  the  gardens  high  up  in 
Montmartre,  where  they  took  me  to  walk,  grew  bare 
and  ugly. 

Once,  I  remember,  I  asked  my  mother,  "Mamma, 
will  the  trees  never  be  green  again  ?" 


»  O  THO  U,  MY  A  USTRIA  I"  25 

"  Oh,  yes,  when  the  spring  conies,"  she  made  answer. 

"  And  then  will  it  be  bright  here  again  ?"  I  asked, 
anxiously. 

To  this  she  made  no  reply,  but  her  eyes  suddenly 
grew  so  sad  that  I  climbed  into  her  lap  and  kissed  her 
upon  both  eyelids. 

Papa  was  rarely  with  us  now,  and  I  was  convinced 
that  he  had  taken  the  sunshine  away  from  our 
home. 

"When  at  long  intervals  he  came  to  dine  with  us, 
there  was  as  much  preparation  as  if  a  stranger  had 
been  expected.  Mamma  busied  herself  in  the  kitchen, 
helping  the  cook,  who  was  also  my  nurse-maid,  to 
prepare  the  dinner.  She  laid  the  cloth  herself,  and 
decorated  the  table  with  flowers.  To  me  everything 
looked  magnificent :  I  was  quite  awe-stricken  by  the 
unwonted  splendour. 

One  day  a  very  beautiful  lady  paid  us  a  visit,  dressed 
in  a  velvet  cloak  trimmed  with  ermine— I  did  not  know 
until  some  time  afterwards  the  name  of  the  fur — and 
a  gray  hat.  I  remember  the  hat  distinctly,  I  was  so 
delighted  with  the  bird  sitting  on  it.  She  expressed 
herself  as  charmed  with  everything  in  our  home,  stared 
about  her  through  her  eye-glass,  overturned  a  small 
table  and  two  footstools  with  her  train,  kissed  me  re- 
peatedly, and  begged  mamma  to  come  soon  to  see  her. 
She  was  a  cousin  of  papa's,  a  Countess  Gatinsky, — the 
very  one  for  whom,  when  she  was  a  young  girl  and 
papa  an  elegant  young  attache,  he  had  been  doing  the 
honours  of  Paris  on  that  eventful  afternoon  when,  while 
she  and  her  mother  were  busy  and  absorbed,  shopping 
B  3 


26  "O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA  I" 

in  the  Bon  Marche,  he  had  fallen  desperately  in  love 
with  my  pale,  beautiful  mother. 

When  the  Countess  left  us,  mamma  cried  bitterly. 
I  do  not  know  whether  she  ever  returned  the  visit, 
but  it  was  never  repeated,  and  I  never  saw  the  Count- 
ess again,  save  once  in  the  Bois  de  Boulogne,  where  I 
was  walking  with  my  mother.  She  was  sitting  in  an 
open  barouche,  and  my  father  was  beside  her.  Oppo- 
site them  an  old  man  sat  crouched  up,  looking  very 
discontented,  and  very  cold,  although  the  day  was 
quite  mild  and  he  was  wrapped  up  in  furs. 

They  saw  us  in  the  distance;  the  Countess  smiled 
and  waved  her  hand ;  papa  grew  very  red,  and  lifted 
his  hat  in  a  stiff,  embarrassed  way. 

I  remember  wondering  at  his  manner:  what  made 
him  bow  to  us  as  if  we  were  two  strangers  ? 

Mamma  hurried  me  on,  and  we  got  into  the  first  om- 
nibus she  could  find.  I  stroked  her  hand  or  smoothed 
the  folds  of  her  gown  all  the  way  home,  for  I  felt  that 
she  had  been  hurt,  although  I  could  not  tell  how. 

The  days  grow  sadder  and  darker,  and  yet  the 
spring  has  come.  Was  there  really  no  sunshine  in 
that  April  and  May,  or  is  it  so  only  in  my  memory  ? 

Meanwhile,  the  trees  have  burst  into  leaf,  and  the 
first  early  cherries  have  decked  our  modest  table.  We 
have  not  seen  papa  for  a  long  time.  He  is  staying  at 
a  castle  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Paris,  but  only  for  a 
few  days. 

It  is  a  sultry  afternoon  in  the  beginning  of  June, — 
I  learned  the  date  of  that  wretched  day  later.  The 


"0  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  27 

flowers  in  the  balcony  before  our  windows,  scarlet 
carnations  and  fragrant  mignonette,  are  drooping, 
because  mamma  has  forgotten  to  water  them,  and 
mamma  herself  looks  as  weary  as  the  flowers.  Pale 
and  miserable,  she  moves  about  the  room  with  the  air 
of  one  whom  the  first  approach  of  some  severe  illness 
half  paralyzes.  Her  pretty  gown,  a  dark-blue  silk 
with  white  spots,  seems  to  hang  upon  her  slender 
figure.  She  arranges  the  articles  in  the  room  here  and 
there  restlessly,  and,  noticing  a  soft  silken  scarf  which 
papa  sometimes  wore  knotted  carelessly  about  his 
throat  in  the  mornings,  and  which  has  been  left  hang- 
ing on  the  knob  of  a  curtain,  she  picks  it  up,  passes  it 
slowly  between  her  hands,  and  holds  it  against  her 
cheek. 

There! — is  not  that  a  carriage  stopping  before  our 
door  ?  I  run  out  upon  the  balcony,  but  can  see  nothing 
of  what  is  going  on  in  the  street  below ;  our  rooms 
are  too  high  up.  I  can  see,  however,  that  the  people 
who  live  opposite  are  hurrying  to  their  windows,  and 
that  the  passers-by  stop  in  the  street,  and  stand  and 
talk  together,  gathering  in  a  little  knot.  A  strange 
bustling  noise  ascends  the  staircase ;  it  comes  up  to 
our  landing, — the  heavy  tread  of  men  supporting  some 
weighty  burden. 

Mamma  stands  spellbound  for  a  moment,  and  then 
flings  the  door  open  and  cries  out.  It  is  papa  whom 
they  are  bringing  up,  deadly  pale,  covered  with  blankets, 
helpless  as  a  child. 

There  had  been  an  accident  in  an  avenue  not  far 
from  Bellefontaine,  the  castle  which  the  Countess 


28  "  0  THOU,  MY  A  USTRIA  I" 

Gatinsky  had  hired  for  the  summer.  Papa  had  been 
riding  with  her, — riding  a  skittish,  vicious  horse, 
against  which  he  had  been  warned.  He  bad  only 
laughed,  however,  declaring  that  he  knew  how  to  man- 
age the  brute.  But  he  could  not  manage  him.  As  I 
learned  afterwards,  the  horse,  after  vainly  trying  to 
throw  his  rider,  had  reared,  and  rolled  over  backwards 
upon  him.  He  was  taken  up  senseless.  "When  he  re- 
covered consciousness  in  Bellefontaine,  whither  they 
carried  him,  and  the  physician  told  him  frankly  that 
he  was  mortally  hurt,  he  desired  to  be  taken  home, — 
to  those  whom  he  loved  best  in  the  world. 

At  first  they  would  not  accede  to  his  wishes ;  Countes* 
Gatinsky  wanted  to  send  for  mamma  and  me, — to  bring 
us  to  Bellefontaine.  But  he  would  not  hear  of  it.  He 
was  told  that  to  take  him  to  Paris  would  be  an  injury 
to  him  in  his  present  condition.  Injury ! — he  laughed 
at  the  word.  He  wanted  to  die  in  the  dear  little  nest 
in  Paris,  and  it  was  a  dying  man's  right  to  have  his 
way. 

I  have  never  talked  of  this  to  any  one,  but  I  have 
thought  very  often  of  our  sorrow,  of  the  shadow  that 
suddenly  fell  upon  my  childhood  and  extinguished  all 
its  sunshine. 

And  I  have  often  heard  people  whispering  together 
about  it  when  they  thought  I  was  not  listening.  But 
I  listened,  listened  involuntarily,  as  one  does  to  words 
which  one  would  afterwards  give  one's  life  not  to 
have  heard.  And  when  the  evil  words  stabbed  me 
like  a  knife,  it  was  a  comfort  to  be  able  to  say  to  my- 
"It  was  merely  the  caprice  of  a  moment, — his 


«'O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  29 

heart  had  n.o  share  in  it ;"  it  was  a  comfort  to  be  able 
to  say  that  mamma  sat  at  his  bedside  and  that  ho  died 
with  his  hand  in  hers. 

I  do  not  remember  how  long  the  struggle  lasted 
before  death  came,  but  I  never  can  forget  the  moment 
when  I  was  taken  in  to  see  him. 

I  can  see  the  room  now  perfectly, — the  bucket 
of  ice  upon  which  the  afternoon  sun  glittered,  the 
bloody  bandages  on  the  floor,  the  furniture  in  disorder, 
and,  lying  here  and  there,  articles  of  dress  which  had 
not  yet  been  put  away.  There,  in  the  large  bed,  where 
the  gay  flowered  curtains  had  been  drawn  back  as  far 
as  possible  to  let  in  the  air,  lay  papa.  His  cheeks 
were  flushed  and  his  blue  eyes  sparkled,  and  when 
I  went  up  to  him  he  laughed.  I  could  not  believe 
that  he  was  ill.  Mamma  sat  at  the  head  of  the  bed, 
dressed  in  her  very  prettiest  gown,  her  wonderful  hair 
loosened  and  hanging  in  all  its  silken  softness  about 
her  shoulders.  She,  too,  smiled;  but  her  smile  made 
me  shiver. 

Papa  looked  long  and  lovingly  at  me,  and,  taking  my 
small  hand  in  his,  put  it  to  his  lips.  Then  he  made  the 
sign  of  the  cross  upon  my  forehead.  I  stood  on  tiptoe 
to  kiss  him,  and  I  embraced  him  with  all  the  fervour  of 
my  five  years.  Mamma  drew  me  back.  "You  hurt 
him,"  she  said.  He  laughed, — laughed  as  a  brave  man 
laughs  at  pain.  He  always  laughed :  I  never  saw  him 
grave  but  once, — only  once.  Mamma  burst  into  tears. 

"  Minette,  Minette,  do  not  be  a  coward.  I  want  you 
to  be  beautiful  always,"  said  he.  Those  words  I  per- 
fc°,tly  remember. 

8* 


30  "O  THOU,  MY  AVSTRIAI'1 

Yes,  he  wanted  her  to  be  beautiful  to  the  last  I 

They  sent  me  out  of  the  room.  As  I  turned  at  the 
door,  I  saw  how  papa  stroked  mamma's  wonderful  hair 
— slowly — lingeringly — with  his  slender  white  hand. 

I  sat  in  the  kitchen  all  the  long  summer  afternoon. 
At  first  our  servant  told  me  stories.  Then  she  had  to 
go  out  upon  an  errand ;  I  stayed  in  the  kitchen  alone, 
sitting  upon  a  wooden  bench,  staring  before  me,  my 
doll,  with  which  I  did  not  care  to  play,  lying  upon 
the  brick  floor  beside  me.  The  copper  saucepans  on 
the  wall  gleam  and  glitter  in  the  rays  of  the  declining 
sun,  and  the  bluebottle  flies  crawl  and  buzz  about  their 
shining  surfaces. 

A  moaning  monotonous  sound,  now  low,  then  loud, 
comes  from  my  father's  room.  I  feel  afraid,  but  I  can- 
not stir :  I  am,  as  it  were,  rooted  to  my  wooden  bench. 
The  hoarse  noise  grows  more  and  more  terrible. 

Gradually  twilight  seems  to  fall  from  the  ceiling  and 
to  rise  from  the  floor ;  the  copper  vessels  on  the  wall 
grow  vague  and  indistinct ;  here  and  there  a  gleam  of 
brilliancy  pierces  the  gray  gloom,  then  all  is  dissolved 
in  darkness.  In  the  distance  a  street-organ  drones  out 
Malbrough ;  I  have  hated  the  tune  ever  since.  The 
moans  grow  louder.  I  lean  my  head  forward  upon  my 
knees  and  stop  my  ears.  What  is  that  ?  One  brief, 
piercing  cry, — and  all  is  still  1 

I  creep  on  tiptoe  to  papa's  room.  The  door  is  open. 
I  can  see  mamma  bending  over  him,  kissing  him,  and 
lavishing  caresses  upon  him:  she  is  no  longer  afraid 
of  hurting  him. 

That  night  a  neighbour  took  mo  homo  with  her,  and 


"0  THOU,  MF  AUSTRIA!"  31 

when  I  came  back,  the  next  day,  papa  lay  in  his  black 
coffin  in  a  darkened  room,  and  candles  were  burning 
all  around  him. 

He  seemed  to  me  to  have  grown.  And  what  dignity 
there  was  in  his  face  1  That  was  the  only  time  I  ever 
saw  him  look  grave. 

Mamma  lifted  me  up  that  I  might  kiss  him.  Some- 
thing cold  seemed  to  touch  my  cheek,  and  suddenly 
I  felt — I  -cannot  describe  the  sensation — an  intense 
dread, — the  same  terror,  only  ten  times  as  great,  as 
that  which  overcame  me  when  I  first  wakened  in  the 
night  and  was  aware  of  the  darkness.  Screaming,  I 
extricated  myself  from  mamma's  arms,  and  ran  out  of 
the  room. 

(Here  the  major  stopped  to  brush  away  the  tears 
before  reading  on.) 

For  a  while  mamma  tried  to  remain  in  Paris  and 

earn  our  living  by  the  embroidery  in  which  she  was  so 
skilful ;  but,  despite  all  her  trying,  she  could  not  do  it. 
The  servant-girl  was  sent  away,  our  rooms  grew  barer 
and  barer,  and  more  than  once  I  went  to  bed  crying 
with  hunger. 

In  November,  Uncle  Paul  came  to  see  us,  and  took 
us  back  with  him  to  Bohemia.  I  cannot  recall  the 
journey,  but  our  arrival  I  remember  distinctly, — the 
long  drive  from  the  station,  along  the  muddy  road, 
between  low  hedges,  or  tall,  slim  poplars ;  then  through 
the  forest,  where  the  wind  tossed  about  the  diy  fsvllen 
leaves,  and  a  few  crimson-tipped  daisies  still  bloomed 
gaily  by  the  roadside,  braving  the  brown  desolation 
about  them;  past  curious  far-stretching  villages,  their 


32  "0  THOU,  MF  AUSTRIA  1" 

low  huts  but  slightly  elevated  above  the  mud  about 
them,  their  black  thatched  roofs  green  in  spots  with 
moss,  their  narrow  windows  gay  with  flowers  behind 
the  thick,  dim  panes;  past  huge  manure-heaps,  upon 
which  large  numbers  of  gay-coloured  fowls  were  cluck- 
ing and  crowing,  and  past  stagnant  ditches  where 
amber-coloured  swine  were  wallowing  contentedly. 

The  dogs  rush  excitedly  out  of  the  huts,  to  run 
barking  after  our  carriage,  while  a  mob  of  barefooted, 
snub-nosed  children,  their  breath  showing  like  smoke 
in  the  frosty  air,  come  bustling  out  of  school,  and 
shout  after  us  "  Praised  be  Jesus  Christ  I" 

A  turn — we  have  driven  into  the  castle  court-yard ; 
Krupitschka  hastens  to  open  the  carriage  door.  At 
the  top  of  the  steps  stands  a  tall  lady  in  mourning, 
very  majestic  in  appearance,  with  a  kind  face.  I  see 
mamma  turn  pale,  shrink — then  all  is  a  blank. 

II. 

At  the  period  when  I  again  take  up  my  reminis- 
cences I  am  entirely  at  home  at  Zirkow,  and  almost 
as  familiar  with  Uncle  Paul  and  Aunt  Eosa  as  if  I 
had  known  them  both  all  my  life. 

Winter  has  set  in,  and,  ah,  such  a  wonderful,  beauti- 
ful winter, — so  bright,  and  glittering  with  such  quanti- 
ties of  pure  white  snow !  I  go  sleighing  with  Uncle 
Paul ;  I  make  a  snow  man  with  Krupitschka, — a  monk 
in  a  long  robe,  because  the  legs  of  the  soldier  we  tried 
to  make  would  not  stand  straight;  and  I  help  Kru- 
pitschka's  wife  to  make  bread  in  a  largo  wooden  bowl 


"O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  33 

with  iron  hoops.  How  delicious  is  the  odour  of  the 
fermenting  dough,  and  how  delightful  it  is  to  run 
about  the  long  brick-paved  corridors  and  passages,  to 
have  so  much  space  and  light  and  air!  When  one 
day  Uncle  Paul  asks  me,  "Which  is  best,  Paris  or 
Zirkow  ?"  I  answer,  without  hesitation,  "  Zirkow  1" 

Uncle  Paul  laughs  contentedly,  but  mamma  looks  at 
me  sadly.  I  feel  that  I  have  grieved  her. 

Now  and  then  I  think  of  papa,  especially  before  I 
go  to  sleep  at  night.  Then  I  sometimes  wonder  if  the 
snow  is  deep  on  his  grave  in  the  churchyard  at  Mont- 
martre,  and  if  he  is  not  cold  in  the  ground.  Poor 
papa! — he  loved  the  sun  so  dearly!  And  I  look  over 
at  mamma,  who  sits  and  sews  at  a  table  near  my  bed, 
and  it  worries  me  to  see  the  tears  rolling  down  her 
cheeks  again. 

Poor  mamma !  She  grows  paler,  thinner,  and  sadder 
every  day,  although  my  uncle  and  aunt  do  everything 
that  they  can  for  her. 

If  I  remember  rightly,  she  was  seldom  with  her 
hosts  except  at  meal-times.  She  lived  in  strict  retire- 
ment, in  the  two  pretty  rooms  which  had  been  assigned 
us,  and  was  always  trying  to  make  herself  useful  with 
her  needle  to  Aunt  Rosa,  who  never  tired  of  admiring 
her  beautiful,  delicate  work. 

Towards  spring  her  hands  were  more  than  ever  wont 
to  drop  idly  in  her  lap,  and  when  the  snow  had  gone 
and  everything  outside  was  beginning  to  stir,  she 
would  sit  for  hours  in  the  bow-window  where  her 
work-table  stood,  doing  nothing,  only  gazing  out 
towards  the  west, — gazing — gazing. 


34  "O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA  I" 

The  soiled  snow  had  vanished ;  the  water  was  drip- 
ping from  roofs  and  trees ;  everything  was  brown  and 
bare.  A  warm  breath  came  sweeping  over  the  world. 
For  a  couple  of  days  all  nature  sobbed  and  thrilled, 
and  then  spring  threw  over  the  earth  her  fragrant 
robe  of  blossoms. 

It  was  my  first  spring  in  the  country,  and  I  never 
shall  forget  my  joyful  surprise  each  morning  at  all 
that  had  been  wrought  overnight.  I  could  not  tell 
which  to  admire  most,  buds,  flowers,  or  butterflies. 
From  morning  till  night  I  roamed  about  in  the  balmy 
air,  amid  the  tender  green  of  grass  and  shrubs.  And 
at  night  I  was  so  tired  that  I  was  asleep  almost  before 
the  last  words  of  my  childish  prayer  had  died  upon 
my  lips.  Ah,  how  soundly  I  slept ! 

But  one  night  I  suddenly  waked,  with  what  seemed 
to  me  the  touch  of  a  soft  hand  upon  my  cheek, — papa's 
hand.  I  started  up  and  looked  about  me ;  there  was 
no  one  to  be  seen.  The  breeze  of  spring  had  caressed 
me, — that  was  all.  How  had  it  found  its  way  in  ? 

The  moon  was  at  the  full,  and  in  its  white  light 
everything  in  the  room  stood  revealed  and  yet  veiled. 
I  sat  up  uneasily,  and  then  noticed  that  mamma's  bed 
was  empty.  I  was  frightened.  "  Mamma !  mamma !" 
I  called,  half  crying. 

There  was  no  reply.  I  sprang  from  my  little  bed, 
and  ran  into  the  next  room,  the  door  of  which  was 
open. 

Mamma  was  standing  there  at  the  window,  gazing 
out  towards  the  west.  The  window  was  wide  open ; 
our  rooms  were  at  the  back  of  the  castle,  and  looked 


"0  THOU,  MF  AUSTRIA  1"  35 

out  upon  the  orchard,  where  nature  was  celebrating 
ite  resurrection  with  festal  splendour.  The  huge  old 
apple-trees  were  all  robed  in  delicate  pink-white  blos- 
soms, the  tender  grass  beneath  them  glittered  with 
dew,  and  above  it  and  among  the  waving  blossoms 
sighed  the  warm  breeze  of  spring  as  if  from  human 
lips.  Mamma  stood  with  extended  arms  whisper- 
ing the  tenderest  words  out  into  the  night, — words 
that  sounded  as  if  stifled  among  sighs  and  kisses. 
She  wore  the  same  dress  in  which  she  had  sat  by 
papa's  bedside  when  he  wished  her  to  be  beauti- 
ful at  their  parting.  Her  hair  hung  loose  about  her 
shoulders.  I  gasped  for  breath,  and  threw  my  arms 
about  her,  crying,  "  Mamma  !  mamma !"  She  turned, 
and  seemed  about  to  thrust  me  from  her  almost 
angrily,  then  suddenly  began  to  weep  bitterly  like  a 
child  just  wakened  from  sleep,  and  crept  back  gently 
and  ashamed  to  our  bedroom.  Without  undressing 
she  lay  down  on  her  bed,  and  I  covered  her  up  as  well 
as  I  could. 

I  could  not  sleep  that  night,  and  I  heard  her  moan 
and  move  restlessly. 

The  next  morning  she  could  not  come  down  to 
breakfast;  a  violent  nervous  fever  had  attacked  her, 
and  ten  days  afterwards  she  died. 

They  broke  the  sad  truth  to  me  slowly,  first  saying 
that  she  had  gone  on  a  journey,  and  then  that  she  was 
with  God  in  heaven.  I  knew  she  was  dead, — and  what 
that  meant. 

I  can  but  dimly  remember  the  days  that  followed 
her  death.  I  dragged  myself  about  beneath  the 


36  "0  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!" 

burden  of  a  grief  far  too  great  for  my  poor,  childish 
little  heart,  and  grew  more  and  more  weary,  until  at 
last  I  was  attacked  by  the  same  illness  of  which  my 
mother  had  died. 

When  I  recovered,  the  memory  of  all  that  had 
happened  before  my  illness  no  longer  gave  me  any 
pain.  I  looked  back  upon  the  past  with  what  was 
almost  indifference.  Not  until  long,  long  afterwards 
did  I  comprehend  the  wealth  of  love  of  which  my 
mother's  death  had  deprived  me. 


III. 

It  really  is  very  entertaining  to  write  one's  memoirs. 
I  will  go  on,  although  it  is  not  raining  to-day.  On  the 
contrary,  it  is  very  warm, — so  warm  that  I  cannot  stay 
out  of  doors. 

Aunt  Rosamunda  is  in  the  drawing-room,  entertain- 
ing the  colonel  of  the  infantry  regiment  in  garrison  at 

X .  She  sent  for  me,  but  I  excused  myself,  through 

Krupitschka.  When  lieutenants  of  hussars  come,  she 
never  sends  for  me.  It  really  is  ridiculous:  does  she 
suppose  my  head  could  be  turned  by  any  officer  of 
hussars  ?  The  idea !  Upon  my  word !  Still,  I  should 
like  for  once  just  to  try  whether  Miss  O'Donnel  is 
right,  whether  I  only  need  wish  to  have — oh,  how  de- 
lightful it  would  be  to  be  adored  to  my  heart's  content ! 
Since,  however,  there  is  no  prospect  of  anything  of  the 
kind,  I  will  continue  to  write  my  memoirs. 

I  have  taken  off  my  gown  and  slipped  on  a  thin  white 
morning  wrapper,  and  the  cook,  with  whom  I  am  a 


"O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  37 

groat  favourite,  has  sent  me  up  a  pitcher  of  iced  lemon- 
ade to  strengthen  me  for  my  literary  labours.  My 
windows  are  open,  and  look  out  upon  a  wilderness  of 
old  trees  with  wild  roses  blooming  among  them.  Ah, 
how  sweet  the  roses  are  I  The  bees  buzz  over  them 
monotonously,  the  leaves  scarcely  rustle,  not  a  bird  is 
singing.  The  world  certainly  is  very  beautiful,  even 
if  one  has  nothing  entertaining  to  do  except  to  write 
memoirs.  Now  that  I  have  finished  telling  of  my 
parents,  I  will  pass  on  to  my  nearest  relatives. 

("  Oho !"  said  the  major.  "  I  am  curious  to  see  what 
she  has  to  say  of  us.") 

Uncle  Paul  is  the  middle  one  of  three  brothers, 

the  eldest  of  whom  is  my  grandfather. 

The  Barons  von  Leskjewitsch  are  of  Croatian  de- 
Bcent,  and  are  convinced  of  the  antiquity  of  their 
family,  without  being  able  to  prove  it.  There  has 
never  been  any  obstacle  to  their  being  i*eceived  at 
court,  and  for  many  generations  they  have  main- 
tained a  blameless  propriety  of  demeanour  and  have 
contracted  very  suitable  marriages. 

Although  all  the  members  of  this  illustrious  family 
are  forever  quarrelling  among  themselves,  and  no  one 
Leskjewitsch  has  ever  been  known  to  get  along  well 
with  another  Leskjewitsch,  they  nevertheless  have  a 
deal  of  family  feeling,  which  manifests  itself  especially 
in  a  touching  pride  in  all  the  peculiarities  of  the  Les- 
kjewitsch temperament.  These  peculiarities  are  noto- 
rious throughout  the  kingdom, — such,  at  least,  is  the 
firm  conviction  of  the  Leskjewitsch  family.  Whatever 
extraordinary  feats  the  Leskjewitsches  may  have  per- 

4 


38  "0  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA  I" 

formed  hitherto,  they  have  never  been  guilty  of  any 
important  departure  from  an  ordinary  mode  of  life,  but 
each  member  of  the  family  has  nevertheless  succeeded 
in  being  endowed  from  the  cradle  with  a  patent  of 
eccentricity,  in  virtue  of  which  mankind  are  more  or 
less  constrained  to  accept  his  or  her  eccentricities  as 
a  matter  of  course. 

I  am  shocked  now  by  what  I  have  here  written 
down.  Of  course  I  am  a  Leskjewitsch,  or  I  never 
should  allow  myself  to  pass  so  harsh  a  judgment  upon 
my  nearest  of  kin.  I  suppose  I  ought  to  erase  those 
lines,  but,  after  all,  no  one  will  ever  see  them,  and  there 
is  something  pleasing  in  my  bold  delineation  of  the 
family  characteristics.  The  style  seems  to  me  quite 
striking.  So  I  will  let  my  words  stand  as  they  are, — 
especially  since  the  only  one  of  the  family  who  has 
ever  been  kind  to  me — Uncle  Paul — is,  according  to  the 
universal  family  verdict,  no  genuine  Leskjewitsch,  but 
a  degenerate  scion.  In  the  first  place,  his  hair  and 
complexion  are  fair,  and,  in  the  second  place,  he  is 
sensible.  Among  men  in  general,  I  believe  ho  passes 
for  mildly  eccentric ;  his  own  family  find  him  distress- 
ingly like  other  people. 

To  which  of  the  two  other  brothers  the  prize  for 
special  originality  is  due,  to  the  oldest  or  to  the 
youngest, — to  my  grandfather  or  to  the  father  of  my 
playmate  Harry, — the  world  finds  it  impossible  to 
decide.  Both  are  widowers,  both  are  given  over  to  a 
craze  for  travel.  My  grandfather's  love  of  travel,  how- 
ever, reminds  one  of  the  restlessness  of  a  white  m-m^i- 
turning  the  wheel  in  its  cage  j  while  my  uncle  Karl's 


•«O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA  I"  39 

is  like  that  of  the  Wandering  Jew,  for  whose  restless 
soul  this  globe  is  too  narrow. 

My  grandfather  is  continually  travelling  from  one 
to  another  of  his  estates,  seldom  varying  the  round ; 
Uncle  Karl  by  turns  hunts  lions  in  the  Soudan  and 
walruses  at  the  North  Pole ;  and  in  their  other  eccen- 
tricities the  brothers  are  very  different.  My  grand- 
father is  a  cynic ;  Uncle  Karl  is  a  sentimentalist.  My 
grandfather  starts  from  the  principle  that  all  effort 
which  has  any  end  in  view,  save  the  satisfying  of  his 
excellent  appetite  and  the  promotion  of  his  sound 
Bleep,  is  nonsense ;  Uncle  Karl  intends  to  write  a  work 
which,  if  rightly  appreciated,  will  entirely  reform  the 
spirit  of  the  age.  My  grandfather  is  a  miser ;  Uncle 
Karl  is  a  spendthrift.  Uncle  Karl  is  beginning  to  see 
the  bottom  of  his  purse ;  my  grandfather  is  enormously 
rich. 

When  I  add  that  my  grandfather  is  a  conservative 
with  a  manner  which  is  intentionally  rude,  and  that 
Uncle  Karl  is  a  radical  with  the  bearing  of  a  courtier, 
I  consider  the  picture  of  the  two  men  tolerably  com- 
plete. All  that  is  left  to  say  is  that  I  know  my  uncle 
Karl  only  slightly,  and  my  grandfather  not  at  all, 
wherefore  my  descriptions  must,  unfortunately,  lack 
the  element  of  personal  observation,  being  drawn 
almost  entirely  from  hearsay. 

My  grandfather's  cynicism  could  not  always  have 
been  so  pronounced  as  at  present;  they  say  he  was 
not  naturally  avaricious,  but  that  he  became  so  in 
behalf  of  my  father,  his  only  son.  He  saved  and 
pinched  for  him,  laying  by  thousands  upon  thousands, 


40  "O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!" 

buying  estate  after  estate  only  to  assure  his  favourite 
a  position  for  which  a  prince  might  envy  him. 

Finally  he  procured  him  an  appointment  as  attachd 
in  the  Austrian  Legation  in  Paris,  and  when  papa 
spent  double  his  allowance  the  old  man  only  laughed 
and  said,  "Youth  must  have  its  swing."  But  when 
my  father  married  a  poor  girl  of  the  middle  class,  my 
grandfather  simply  banished  him  from  his  heart,  and 
would  have  nothing  more  to  do  with  him. 

After  this  papa  slowly  consumed  the  small  property 
he  had  inherited  from  his  mother,  and  at  his  death 
nothing  of  it  was  left. 

Uncle  Paul  was  the  only  one  of  the  family  who  still 
clung  to  my  father  after  his  mesalliance, — the  one  ec- 
centricity which  had  never  been  set  down  in  the  Les- 
kjewitsch  programme.  When  mamma  in  utter  desti- 
tution applied  to  him  for  help,  he  went  to  my  grand- 
father, told  him  of  the  desperate  extremity  to  which 
she  was  reduced,  and  entreated  him  to  do  something 
for  her  and  for  me.  My  grandfather  merely  replied 
that  he  did  not  support  vagabonds. 

My  cousin  Heda,  whose  custom  it  is  to  tell  eveiy 
one  of  everything  disagreeable  she  hears  said  about 
them, — for  conscience'  sake,  that  they  may  know  whom 
to  mistrust, — furnished  me  with  these  details. 

The  upshot  of  the  interview  was,  first,  that  my 
uncle  Paul  quarrelled  seriously  with  my  grandfather, 
and,  second,  that  he  resolved  to  go  to  Paris  forthwith 
and  see  that  matters  were  set  right. 

Aunt  Eosa  maintains  that  at  the  last  moment  he 
asked  Krupitschka  to  sanction  his  decision.  This  is  a 


41 

malicious  invention ;  but  when  Heda  declares  that  he 
brought  us  to  Bohemia  chiefly  with  the  view  of  dis- 
gracing and  vexing  my  grandfather,  there  may  be 
some  grain  of  truth  in  her  assertion. 

Many  years  have  passed  since  our  modest  entrance 
here  in  Zirkow,  but  my  amiable  grandfather  still  main- 
tains his  determined  hostility  towards  Uncle  Paul  and 
myself. 

His  favourite  occupation  seems  to  consist  in  per- 
fecting each  year,  with  the  help  of  a  clever  lawyer, 
his  will,  by  which  I  am  deprived,  so  far  as  is  possible, 
of  the  small  share  of  his  wealth  which  falls  to  me 
legally  as  my  father's  heir.  He  has  chosen  for  his 
sole  heir  his  youngest  brother's  eldest  son,  my  play- 
mate Harry,  upon  condition  that  Harry  marries  suita- 
bly, which  means  a  girl  with  sixteen  quarterings.  I 
have  no  quarterings,  so  if  Harry  marries  me  he  will 
not  have  a  penny. 

How  could  such  an  idea  occur  to  him?  It  is  too 
ridiculous  to  be  thought  of.  But — what  if  he  did  take 
it  into  his  head  ?  Oh,  I  have  sound  sense  enough  for 
two,  and  I  know  exactly  what  I  want, — a  grand  posi- 
tion, an  opportunity  to  play  in  the  world  the  part  for 
which  I  feel  myself  capable, — everything,  in  short, 
that  he  could  not  offer  me.  Moreover,  I  am  quite  in- 
different to  him.  I  have  a  certain  regard  for  him  for 
the  sake  of  old  times,  and  therefore  he  shall  have  a 
chapter  of  these  memoirs  all  to  himself. 

At  the  end  of  this  chapter  the  major  shook  his 

heau  disapprovingly. 

4* 


42  "O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!" 

IV. 

MY   DEAREST   FLATMATE. 

The  first  time  that  I  saw  him  he  was  riding  upon 
a  pig, — a  wonder  of  a  pig ;  it  looked  like  a  huge  monster 
to  me, — which  he  guided  by  its  ears.  One  is  not  a 

Leskjewitsch  for  nothing.  It  was  at  Komaritz 

But  I  will  describe  the  entire  day,  which  I  remember 
with  extraordinary  distinctness. 

Uncle  Paul  himself  took  me  to  Komaritz  in  his 
pretty  little  dog-cart,  drawn  by  a  pair  of  spirited  ponies 
in  gay  harness  and  trappings.  Of  course  I  sat  on  the 
box  beside  my  uncle,  being  quite  aware  that  this  was 
the  seat  of  honour.  I  wore  an  embroidered  white 
gown,  long  black  stockings,  and  a  black  sash,  and  car- 
ried a  parasol  which  I  had  borrowed  of  Aunt  Eosa,  not 
because  I  needed  it, — my  straw  hat  perfectly  shielded 
my  face  from  the  sun, — but  because  it  seemed  to  me 
required  for  the  perfection  of  my  toilet. 

I  was  very  well  pleased  with  myself,  and  nodded 
with  great  condescension  to  the  labourers  and  school- 
children whom  we  met. 

I  have  never  attempted  to  conceal  from  myself  or  to 
deny  the  fact  that  I  am  vain. 

Ah,  how  merrily  we  bowled  along  over  the  white, 
dusty  road!  The  ponies'  hoofs  hardly  touched  the 
ground.  After  a  while  the  road  grew  bad,  and  we 
drove  more  slowly.  Then  we  turned  into  a  rough 
path  between  high  banks.  What  a  road !  Deep  as  a 
chasm ;  the  wheels  of  the  vehicle  jolted  right  and  left 


«O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  43 

through  ruts  overgrown  with  thistles,  brambles,  and 
wild  roses. 

"  Suppose  we  should  meet  another  carriage  ?"  I  asked 
my  uncle,  anxiously. 

"Just  what  I  was  asking  myself,"  he  replied,  com- 
posedly; "there  is  really  no  room  for  passing.  But 
why  not  trust  in  Providence  ?" 

The  road  grows  worse,  but  now,  instead  of  passing 
through  a  chasm,  it  runs  along  the  edge  of  a  precipice. 
The  dog-cart  leans  so  far  to  one  side  that  the  groom 
gets  out  to  steady  it.  The  wheels  grate  against  the 
stones,  and  the  ponies  shake  their  shaggy  heads  dis- 
contentedly, as  much  as  to  say,  "  "We  were  not  made 
for  such  work  as  this." 

In  after-years,  when  so  bad  a  road  in  the  midst  of 
one  of  the  most  civilized  provinces  of  Austria  seemed 
to  me  inexplicable,  Uncle  Paul  explained  it  to  me. 
At  one  time  in  his  remembrance  the  authorities  de- 
cided to  lay  out  a  fine  road  there,  but  Uncle  Karl 
contrived  to  frustrate  their  purpose;  he  did  not  wish 
to  have  Komaritz  too  accessible — for  fear  of  guests. 

A  delicious  pungent  fragrance  is  wafted  from  the 
vine-leaves  in  the  vineyards  on  the  sides  of  the  hills, 
flocks  of  white  and  yellow  butterflies  hover  above 
them,  the  grasshoppers  chirp  shrilly,  and  from  the  dis- 
tance comes  the  monotonous  sound  of  the  sweep  of 
the  mower's  scythe.  The  sun  is  burning  hot,  and  the 
shadows  are  short  and  coal-black. 

Click-clack — click-clack — precipice  and  ravine  lie 
behind  us,  and  we  are  careering  along  a  delightful  road 
shaJed  by  huge  walnut-trees. 


44  "O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA  t" 

A  brown,  shapeless  ruin  crowning  a  vine-clad  ctni. 
nence  rises  before  us.  Click-clack — click-clack — the 
ponies  fly  past  a  marble  St.  John,  around  which  are 
grouped  three  giant  lindens,  whose  branches  scatter 
fading  blossoms  upon  us ;  past  a  smithy,  from  which 
issues  a  strong  odour  of  wagon-grease  and  burnt 
hoofs ;  past  a  slaughter-house,  in  front  of  which  a 
butchered  ox  is  hanging  from  a  chestnut-tree ;  past 
pretty  whitewashed  cottages,  some  of  them  two  stories 
high  and  with  flower-gardens  in  front, — Komaritz  is  a 
far  more  important  and  prosperous  village  than  Zir- 
kow;  then  through  a  lofty  but  perilously  ruinous 
archway  into  a  spacious,  steeply-ascending  court-yard, 
through  the  entire  length  of  which  runs  a  broad 
gutter.  Yes,  yes,  it  was  there — in  that  court-yard — 
that  I  saw  him  for  the  first  time,  and  he  was  riding 
upon  a  pig,  holding  fast  by  its  ears,  and  the  animal, 
galloping  furiously,  was  doing  its  best  to  throw  him 
oS.  But  this  was  no  easy  matter,  for  he  sat  as  if  he 
were  part  of  his  steed,  and  withal  maintained  a  lofti- 
ness of  bearing  that  would  have  done  honour  to  a 
Spanish  grandee  at  a  coronation.  He  was  very  hand- 
some, very  slender,  very  brown,  and  wore  a  white  suit, 
the  right  sleeve  of  which  was  spotted  with  ink. 

In  front  of  the  castle,  at  a  wooden  table  fastened  to 
the  ground  beneath  an  old  pear-tree,  sat  a  yellow- 
haired  young  man,  with  a  bloated  face  and  fat  hands, 
watching  the  spectacle  calmly  and  drinking  beer  from 
a  stone  mug  with  a  leaden  cover. 

When  the  pig  found  that  it  could  not  throw  its 
rider,  it  essayed  another  means  to  be  rid  of  him.  It 


"0  THOU,  MF  AUSTRIA!"  45 

lay  down  in  the  gutter  and  rolled  over  in  the  mud. 
When  Harry  arose,  he  looked  like  the  bad  boys  in 
"  Slovenly  Peter"  after  they  had  been  dipped  in  the 
inkstand. 

"  I  told  you  how  it  would  be,"  the  fat  young  man 
observed,  phlegmatically,  and  went  on  drinking  beer. 
As  I  afterwards  learned,  he  was  Harry's  tutor,  Herr 
Pontius. 

"What  does  it  matter?"  said  Harry,  composedly, 
looking  down  at  the  mud  dripping  from  him,  as  if  such 
a  bath  were  an  event  of  every -day  occurrence ;  "  I  did 
what  I  chose  to  do." 

"And  now  I  shall  do  what  I  choose  to  do.  You 
will  go  to  your  room  and  translate  fifty  lines  of 
Horace." 

Harry  shrugged  his  shoulders  contemptuously.  I 
now  think  that  he  was  posing  a  little  for  our  sakes, 
for  we  had  just  driven  up  to  the  castle,  but  then  his 
composure  made  a  great  impression  upon  me.  After 
he  had  bowed  respectfully  to  Uncle  Paul  from  where 
he  stood,  he  vanished  behind  a  side-door  of  the  castle, 
at  the  chief  entrance  of  which  we  had  drawn  up.  A 
dignified  footman  received  us  in  the  hall,  and  a  crowd 
of  little  black  dachshunds,  with  yellow  feet  and  eye- 
brows, barked  a  loud  welcome. 

We  were  conducted  into  a  large  room  on  the  ground- 
floor, — apparently  reception-room,  dining-room,  and 
living-room  all  in  one, — whence  a  low  flight  of  wooden 
steps  led  out  into  the  garden.  A  very  sallow  but 
otherwise  quite  pretty  Frenchwoman,  who  reminded 
me — 1  cannot  tell  why — of  the  black  dachshunds,  and 


46  "  O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!" 

who  proved  to  be  my  little  cousin's  governess,  received 
us  here  and  did  the  honours  for  us. 

My  cousin  Heda,  a  yellow-haired  little  girl  with 
portentously  good  manners,  relieved  me  of  my  parasol, 
and  asked  me  if  I  had  not  found  the  drive  very  warm. 
Whilst  I  made  some  monosyllabic  and  confused  reply, 
I  was  wondering  whether  her  brother  would  get  through 
his  punishment  and  make  his  appearance  again  before 
we  left.  When  my  uncle  withdrew  on  the  pretext  of 
looking  after  some  agricultural  matter,  Heda  asked  me 
if  I  would  not  play  graces  with  her.  She  called  it  jeu 
de  grace,  and,  in  fact,  spoke  French  whenever  it  was 
possible. 

I  agreed,  she  brought  the  graces,  and  we  went  out 
into  the  garden. 

Oh,  that  Komaritz  garden  !  How  clumsy  and  ugly, 
and  yet  what  a  dear,  old-fashioned  garden  it  was! 
Lying  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  crowned  by  the  ancient 
ruin  and  the  small  frame  house  built  for  the  tutors, 
— who  were  changed  about  every  two  months, — it  was 
divided  into  huge  rectangular  flower-beds,  bordered 
with  sage,  lavender,  or  box,  from  which  mighty  old 
apricot-trees  looked  down  upon  a  luxuriant  wilderness 
of  lilies,  roses,  blue  monk's-hood,  scarlet  verbenas,  and 
whatever  else  was  in  season.  Back  of  this  waste  of 
flowers  there  were  all  sorts  of  shrubs, — hawthorns, 
laburnums,  jessamines,  with  here  and  there  an  ancient 
hundred-leaved  rose-bush,  whose  heavy  blossoms,  borne 
down  by  their  own  weight,  drooped  and  lay  upon  the 
mossy  paths  that  intersected  this  thicket.  Then  came 
a  green  lawn,  where  was  a  swing  hung  between  two 


"O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA  I"  47 

old  chestnuts,  and  near  by  stood  a  queer  old  summer- 
house,  circular,  with  a  lofty  tiled  roof,  upon  the  peak 
of  which  gleamed  a  battered  brass  crescent.  Every- 
where in  the  shade  were  fastened  in  the  ground  com- 
fortable garden-seats,  smelling  deliciously  of  moss  and 
mouldering  wood,  and  where  you  least  expected  it 
the  ground  sloped  to  a  little  bubbling  spring,  its  banks 
clothed  with  velvet  verdure  and  gay  with  marsh 
daisies  and  spiderwort,  sprung  from  seed  which  the 
wind  had  wafted  hither.  I  cannot  begin  to  tell  of  the 
kitchen-garden  and  orchard ;  I  should  never  be  done. 

And  just  as  I  have  here  described  it  as  it  was  fourteen 
years  ago  the  dear  old  garden  stands  to-day,  with  the 
exception  of  some  trifling  changes ;  but — they  are  talk- 
ing of  improvements — poor  garden  I  What  memories 
are  evoked  when  I  think  of  it ! 

Again  I  am  six  years  old  and  playing  with  Heda, 
— I  intent  and  awkward,  Heda  elegantly  indifferent. 
If  one  of  her  hoops  soars  away  over  my  head,  or 
falls  among  the  flowers  in  one  of  the  beds,  she  shrugs 
her  shoulders  with  an  affected  smile,  and  exclaims, 
"Monstrel"  At  first  I  offer  to  creep  in  among  the 
flowers  after  the  lost  hoop,  but  she  rejects  my  offer 
with  a  superior  "  Quelle  idee  I"  and  assures  me  that  it 
is  the  gardener's  business. 

Consequently,  we  soon  come  to  the  end  of  our  supply 
of  hoops,  and  are  obliged  to  have  recourse  to  some  other 
mode  of  amusing  ourselves. 

"  I  am  quite  out  of  breath,"  says  Heda,  fanning  her- 
self with  her  pocket-handkerchief.  "'Tis  a  stupid 
don't  you  think  so  ?" 


48  "0  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA /» 

"  But  if  I  only  could  do  it !"  I  sigh. 

"  It  is  quite  out  of  fashion ;  nothing  is  played  now 
but  croquet,"  she  informs  me.  "  Do  you  like  to  play 
croquet  ?" 

"I  do  not  know  what  croquet  is,"  I  confess,  much 
mortified. 

"  Ha,  ha !"  she  laughs.  "  Mademoiselle,"  turning  to 
the  governess,  who  is  now  seated  on  the  garden-steps, 
"only  think,  ma  petite  cousine  does  not  know  what 
croquet  is! — delicious!  Excuse  me,"  taking  my  hand, 
"  it  is  very  ill  bred  to  laugh,  metis  c'est  plus  fort  que  moi. 
It  is  a  delightful  game,  that  is  played  with  balls  and 
iron  hoops.  Sometimes  you  strike  your  foot,  and  that 
hurts ;  but  more  often  you  only  pretend  that  it  does, 
and  then  the  gentlemen  all  come  round  you  arid  pity 
you:  it  is  too  delightful.  But  sit  down,"  pointing  with 
self-satisfied  condescension  to  the  steps.  We  both  sit 
down,  and  she  goes  on:  "Where  did  you  pass  the 
winter?" 

"AtZirkow." 

"  Oh,  in  the  country !     I  pity  you." 

Heda — I  mention  this  in  a  parenthesis — was  at  this 
time  scarcely  ten  years  old.  "  No  winter  in  the  coun- 
try for  me,"  this  pleasure-loving  young  person  contin- 
ues. "  Oh,  what  a  delightful  winter  I  had !  I  was  at 
twelve  balls.  It  is  charming  if  you  have  partners 
enough— oh,  when  three  gentlemen  beg  for  a  waltz! 
But  society  in  Prague  is  nothing  to  that  of  Vienna — 
I  always  say  there  is  only  one  Vienna.  Were  you 
ever  in  Vienna  ?" 

"No,"  I  murmur.     Suddenly,  however,  my  humili- 


«  0  THOU,  MY  A  USTRIA  I"  49 

ated  self-consciousness  rebels,  and,  setting  my  arras 
akimbo,  I  ask,  "And  were  you  ever  in  Paris?"  The 
Frenchwoman  behind  us  laughs. 

Down  from  above  us  falls  a  hard  projectile  upon 
Heda's  fair  head, — a  large  purple  bean, — and  then 
another.  She  looks  up  angrily.  Harry  is  leaning  out 
of  a  window  above  us,  his  elbows  resting  on  the  sill, 
and  his  head  between  his  hands.  "  What  an  ill-bred 
boor  you  are !"  she  calls  out. 

"  And  do  you  know  what  you  are  ?"  he  shouts ;  "  an 
affected  braggart — that's  what  you  are." 

With  which  he  jumps  from  the  window  into  the 
branches  of  a  tree  just  before  it,  and  comes  scrambling 
down  to  the  ground.  "  What  is  your  name  ?"  he  asks  me. 

"  Zdena." 

"I  am  happy  to  make  your  acquaintance,  Zdena. 
Heda  bores  you,  doesn't  she  ?" 

I  shake  my  head  and  laugh;  feeling  a  protector 
near  me,  I  am  quite  merry  once  more.  "  Would  you 
like  to  take  a  little  ride,  Zdena  ?"  he  asks. 

"  Upon  a  pig  ?"  I  inquire,  in  some  trepidation. 

He  laughs,  somewhat  embarrassed,  and  shrugs  his 
shoulders.  "  You  do  not  really  suppose  that  I  am  in 
the  habit  of  riding  pigs !"  he  exclaims ;  "  I  only  do  it 
when  my  tutor  forbids  it — it  is  too  ridiculous  to  sup- 
pose such  a  thing  1"  and  he  hurries  away. 

I  look  after  him  remorsefully.  I  am  vexed  to  have 
been  so  foolish,  and  I  am  sorry  to  have  frightened  him 
away. 

In  a  few  minutes,  however,  ho  appears  again,  and 
this  time  on  horseback.  He  is  riding  a  beautiful  pony, 
c  d  5 


50  "O  THOU,  MF  AUSTRIA!" 

chestnut,  with  a  rather  dandified  long  tail  and  a  bushy 
mane.  Harry  has  a  splendid  seat,  and  is  quite  aware 
of  it.  Apparently  he  is  desirous  of  producing  an  im- 
pression upon  me,  for  he  performs  various  astounding 
feats, — jumps  through  the  swing,  over  a  garden-seat 
and  a  wheelbarrow, — and  then,  patting  his  horse  en- 
couragingly on  the  neck,  approaches  me,  his  bridle 
over  his  arm. 

"  Will  you  try  now  ?"  he  asks. 

Of  course  I  will.  He  lifts  me  into  the  saddle,  where 
I  sit  sideways,  buckles  the  stirrup  shorter,  quite  like 
a  grown-up  admirer ;  and  then  I  ride  slowly  and 
solemnly  through  the  garden,  he  carefully  holding  me 
on  the  while.  I  become  conscious  of  a  wish  to  dis- 
tinguish myself  in  his  eyes.  "  I  should  like  to  try  it 
alone,"  I  stammer,  in  some  confusion. 

"I  see  you  are  brave;  I  like  that,"  he  says,  re- 
signing the  bridle  to  me.  Trot,  trot  goes  the  pony. 
"Faster,  faster  1"  I  cry,  giving  the  animal  a  dig  with 
my  heel.  The  pony  rears,  and — I  am  lying  on  the 
ground,  with  scraped  hands  and  a  scratched  chin. 

"It  is  nothing,"  I  cry,  bravely  ignoring  my  pain, 
when  Harry  hurries  up  to  me  with  a  dismayed  face. 
"We  must  expect  such  things,"  I  add,  with  dignity. 
"  Eiding  is  always  dangerous ;  my  father  was  killed 
by  being  thrown  from  his  horse." 

"  Indeed  ?  Really  ?"  Harry  says,  sympathetically,  as 
he  wipes  the  gravel  off  my  hands.  "  How  long  has  he 
been  dead  ?" 

"  Oh,  a  long  time, — a  year." 

u  My  mother  has  been  dead  much  longer,"  he  says, 


"O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  51 

importantly,  almost  boastfully.  "She  has  been  dead 
three  years.  And  is  yours  still  living  ?" 

"N — no."  And  the  tears,  hitherto  so  bravely  re- 
atrained,  come  in  a  torrent. 

lie  is  frightened,  kneels  down  beside  me, — even  then 
he  was  much  taller  than  I, — and  wipes  away  the  tears 
with  his  pocket-handkerchief.  "Poor  little  thing!" 
he  murmurs,  "  I  am  so  sorry  for  you ;  I  did  not 

know "  And  he  puts  his  arm  round  me  and 

strokes  my  hair.  Suddenly  a  delightful  and  strange 
sensation  possesses  me, — a  feeling  I  have  not  had  since 
my  poor  dear  mother  gave  me  her  last  kiss :  my  whole 
childish  being  is  penetrated  by  it. 

We  have  been  fond  of  each  other  ever  since  that 
moment ;  we  are  so  to-day. 

"Come  with  me  to  the  kitchen-garden  now,"  he 
says,  "  and  see  my  puppies."  And  he  calls  to  the  gar- 
dener and  commits  to  his  charge  the  pony,  that,  quite 
content  with  the  success  of  his  manoeuvre,  is  quietly 
cropping  the  verbena-blossoms. 

My  tears  are  dried.  I  am  crouching  beside  the 
kennel  in  the  kitchen-garden,  with  four  charming  little 
puppies  in  my  lap.  There  is  a  fragrance  of  cucumber- 
leaves,  sorrel,  and  thyme  all  about.  The  bright  sun- 
shine gleams  on  the  dusty  glass  of  the  hot-bed,  on 
the  pumpkins  and  cucumbers,  on  the  water  in  the  tub 
under  the  pump,  beside  which  a  weeping  willow  parades 
its  proverbial  melancholy.  Harry's  fair,  fat  tutor  is 
walking  past  a  trellis  where  the  early  peaches  are 
hanging,  smoking  a  long  porcelain  pipe.  He  pauses 
and  pinches  the  fruit  here  and  there,  as  if  to  discover 


52  "0  THOU,  Ml' AUSTRIA  I" 

when  it  will  be  ripe.  I  hold  one  after  another  of  the 
silken,  warm  dog-babies  to  my  cheek,  and  am  happy, 
while  Harry  laughs  good-humouredly  at  my  enthusiasm 
and  prevents  the  jealous  mother  of  the  puppies  from 
snapping  at  me. 

"  We  have  been  fond  of  each  other  ever  since." 

The  major  smiles  contentedly  as  he  reads  this. 

V. 

KOMARITZ. 

I  was  soon  at  home  at  Komaritz,  often  passed  weeks 
there,  feeling  extremely  comfortable  amid  those  strange 
surroundings, — for  the  life  led  in  the  clumsy,  unadorned 
old  house  upon  which  the  mediaeval  castle  looked  down 
was  certainly  a  strange  one. 

In  fact,  the  modern  structure  was  no  whit  superior 
to  the  castle  except  in  the  matter  of  ugliness  and  in 
the  fact  that  it  possessed  a  roof.  Otherwise  it  was 
almost  as  ruinous  as  the  ruin,  and  had  to  be  propped 
up  in  a  fresh  place  every  year.  The  long  passages 
were  paved  with  worn  tiles;  the  ground-floor  was 
connected  with  the  upper  stories  by  a  steep  winding 
staircase.  The  locks  on  the  doors  were  either  broken 
or  the  keys  were  lost,  and  the  clocks,  if  they  went  at 
all,  all  pointed  to  different  hours. 

In  a  large  room  called  the  drawing-room,  where  the 
plaster  was  crumbling  down  from  the  ceiling  bit  by  bit, 
there  stood,  among  three-legged  tables  and  threadbare 
arm-chairs,  many  an  exquisite  antique.  In  the  rooms 


"  O  THOU,  MY  A  USTRIA  I"  53 

in  use,  on  the  other  hand,  there  was  no  article  of  mere 
luxury :  all  was  plain  and  useful,  as  in  some  parsonage. 
And  yet  there  was  something  strangely  attractive  in 
this  curious  home.  The  rooms  were  of  spacious  di- 
mensions ;  those  on  the  ground-floor  were  all  vaulted. 
The  sunbeams  forced  their  way  through  leafy  vines 
and  creepers  into  the  deep  embrasures  of  the  windows. 
The  atmosphere  was  impregnated  with  a  delicious, 
mysterious  fragrance, — an  odour  of  mould,  old  wood, 
and  dried  rose-leaves.  Harry  maintained  that  it  smelled 
of  ghosts,  and  that  there  was  a  white  lady  who  "walked" 
in  the  corner  room  next  to  the  private  chapel. 

I  must  confess,  in  spite  of  my  love  for  the  old  bar- 
rack, that  it  was  not  a  fit  baronial  mansion.  No  one 
had  ever  lived  there,  save  a  steward,  before  Uncle 
Karl,  who,  as  the  youngest  Leskjewitsch,  inherited  it, 
took  up  his  abode  there.  He  had,  when  he  was  first 
married,  planned  a  new  castle,  but  soon  relinquished 
his  intention,  first  for  financial  reasons,  and  then 
from  dread  of  guests,  a  dread  that  seems  to  have  be- 
come a  chronic  disease  with  him.  When  his  wife  died, 
all  thought  of  any  new  structure  had  been  given  up. 
From  that  time  he  scarcely  ever  stayed  there  himself, 
and  the  old  nest  was  good  enough  for  a  summer  resi- 
dence for  the  children.  With  the  exception  of  Heda, 
— besides  Harry  there  was  a  good-for-nothing  small 
boy, — the  children  thought  so  too.  They  had  a  pa- 
thetic affection  for  the  old  place  where  they  appeared 
each  year  with  the  flowers,  the  birds,  and  the  sunshine. 
They  seemed  to  me  to  belong  to  the  spring.  Every- 
thuig  was  bright  and  warm  about  me  when  they  came. 

6* 


54  "O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA  1» 

Harry  was  my  faithful  knight  from  first  to  last ;  our 
friendship  grew  with  our  growth.  He  tyrannized  over 
me  a  little,  and  liked  to  impress  me,  I  think,  with  a 
sense  of  his  superiority;  but  he  faithfully  and  de- 
cidedly stood  by  me  whenever  I  needed  him.  He 
drove  me  everywhere  about  the  country ;  his  two 
ponies  could  either  be  driven  or  ridden ;  he  taught  me 
to  ride,  climbed  mountains  with  me,  explored  with  me 
every  corner  of  the  old  ruin  on  the  hill,  and  then 
when  we  came  home  at  night,  each  somewhat  weary 
with  our  long  tramp,  he  would  tell  me  stories. 

How  vividly  I  remember  it  all !  I  can  fancy  myself 
now  sitting  beside  him  on  the  lowest  of  the  steps  lead- 
ing from  the  living-room  into  the  garden.  At  our  feet 
the  flowers  exhale  sweet,  sad  odours,  the  pale  roses 
drenched  in  dew  show  white  amid  the  dim  foliage ; 
above  our  heads  there  is  a  dreamy  whisper  in  the 
boughs  of  an  old  apricot-tree,  whose  leaves  stand  out 
sharp  and  black  against  the  deep-blue  sky,  sown  with 
myriads  of  sparkling  stars.  And  Harry  is  telling  me 
stories.  Ah,  such  stories  I  the  most  terrible  tales  of 
robbers  and  ghosts,  each  more  shudderingly  horrible 
than  its  predecessor. 

Oh,  how  delightful  it  is  to  feel  one  shudder  after 
another  creeping  down  your  back  in  the  warm  summer 
evening!  and  if  it  grows  too  fearful,  and  I  begin  to 
be  really  afraid  of  the  pale,  bloodless  phantoms  which 
he  conjures  up  before  me,  I  move  a  little  closer  to  him, 
and,  as  if  seeking  protection,  clasp  his  hand,  taking 
refuge  from  my  ghostly  fears  in  the  consciousness  of 
his  warm  young  life. 


"0  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA  I"  55 

VI. 

HARRY'S  TUTORS. 

Every  Sunday  the  Komaritzers  come  to  us  at  Zir- 
kow,  driving  over  in  a  tumble-down  old  coach  covered 
with  faded  blue  cloth,  hung  on  spiral  springs,  and  called 
Noah's  ark. 

The  coachman  wears  no  livery,  except  such  as  can 
be  found  in  an  imposing  broad  gold  band  upon  a  very 
shabby  high  hat. 

Of  course  the  children  are  always  accompanied  by 
the  governess  and  the  tutor. 

The  first  governess  whom  I  knew  at  Komaritz — 
Mademoiselle  Duval — was  bright,  well-bred,  and  very 
lovable ;  the  tutor  was  the  opposite  of  all  this. 

He  may  have  been  a  proficient  in  ancient  languages, 
but  he  spoke  very  poor  German.  His  nails  were  always 
in  mourning,  and  he  neglected  his  dress.  Intercourse 
with  good  society  made  him  melancholy.  At  our  table 
he  always  took  the  worst  place.  Uncle  Paul  every 
Sunday  addressed  the  same  two  questions  to  him,  never 
remembering  his  name,  but  regularly  calling  him  Herr 
Paulus,  whereas  his  name  was  Pontius.  After  the 
tutor  had  answered  these  questions  humbly,  he  never 
again,  so  long  as  dinner  lasted,  opened  his  mouth, 
except  to  put  into  it  large  mouthfuls,  or  his  knife. 
Between  the  courses  he  twirled  his  thumbs  and  sniffed. 
He  always  had  a  cold  in  his  head.  When  dinner  was 
over  he  pushed  his  chair  back  against  the  wall,  bowed 
awkwardly,  and  retired,  never  appearing  among  us 


56  "O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA  I" 

during  the  rest  of  the  afternoon,  which  he  spent  play- 
ing  "  Pinch  "  with  Krupitschka,  with  a  pack  of  dirty 
cards  which  from  long  usage  had  lost  their  corners 
and  had  become  oval.  We  often  surprised  him  at  this 
amusement, — Harry  and  I. 

As  soon  as  he  disappeared  Aunt  Rosamunda  always 
expressed  loudly  and  distinctly  her  disapproval  of  his 
bad  manners.  But  when  we  children  undertook  to 
sneer  at  them,  we  were  sternly  repressed, — wore  told 
that  such  things  were  of  no  consequence,  and  that  bad 
manners  did  not  in  the  least  detract  from  a  human 
being's  genuine  worth. 

On  one  occasion  Harry  rejoined,  "  I'm  glad  to  hear 
it,"  and  at  the  next  meal  sat  with  both  elbows  upon 
the  table. 

Moreover,  I  soon  observed  that  Herr  Pontius  was  by 
no  means  the  meek  lamb  he  seemed  to  be,  and  this  I 
discovered  at  the  harvest-home.  There  was  a  dance 
beneath  the  lindens  at  the  farm,  where  Herr  Pontius 
whirled  the  peasant-girls  around,  and  capered  about 
like  a  very  demon.  His  face  grew  fierce,  and  his  hair 
floated  wildly  about  his  head.  Wo  children  nearly 
died  of  laughing  at  him. 

Soon  afterwards  he  was  dismissed,  and  in  a  great 
hurry.  When  I  asked  Harry  to  tell  me  the  cause  of 
his  sudden  disappearance,  he  replied  that  it  was  love 
that  had  broken  Herr  Pontius's  neck.  But  when  I 
insisted  upon  a  more  lucid  explanation,  Harry  touched 
the  tip  of  my  nose  with  his  forefinger  and  said,  sen- 
tentiously,  "Too  much  knowledge  makes  little  girls 
*gly." 


"0  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  57 

He  was  not  the  only  one  among  Harry's  tutors 
whose  neck  was  broken  through  love :  the  next — a 
very  model  of  a  tutor — followed  the  example  in  this 
respect  of  the  dance-loving  Herr  Pontius. 

His  name  was  Ephraim  Schmied ;  he  came  from 
Hildesheim,  and  was  very  learned  and  well  conducted, 
— in  short,  by  long  odds  the  best  of  all  Harry's  tutors. 
If  he  did  not  retain  his  position,  it  may  well  be  im- 
agined that  it  was  the  fault  of  the  position. 

As  with  every  other  fresh  tutor,  Harry  set  himself 
in  opposition  to  him  at  first,  and  did  his  best  to  dis- 
cover ridiculous  traits  in  him.  His  efforts  in  this  di- 
rection were  for  a  time  productive  of  no  results,  and 
Herr  Schmied,  thanks  to  his  untiring  patience  com- 
bined with  absolute  firmness,  was  in  a  fair  way  to 
master  his  wayward  pupil,  when  matters  took  an  un- 
expected and  unfortunate  turn. 

Harry,  in  fact,  had  finally  discovered  the  weak  place 
in  Herr  Schmied's  armour,  and  it  was  in  the  region 
of  the  heart.  Herr  Schmied  had  fallen  in  love  with 
Mademoiselle  Duval.  To  fall  in  love  was  in  Harry's 
eyes  at  that  time  the  extreme  of  human  stupidity  (he 
ought  to  have  rested  in  that  conviction).  Uncle  Paul 
shared  it.  He  chuckled  when  Harry  one  fine  day  told 
him  of  his  discovery,  and  asked  the  keen-sighted  young 
good-for-naught  upon  what  he  founded  his  supposi- 
tion. 

"  He  sings  Schubert's  '  Wanderer'  to  her  every  even- 
ing, and  yesterday  he  brought  her  a  vase  from  X ," 

Harry  replied :  "  there  the  fright  stands." 

Uccle  Paul  took  the  vase  in  his  hands,  an  odd  smile 


58  "  0  THOU,  MY  A  USTRIA  I" 

playing  about  his  mouth  the  while.  It  was  decorated 
with  little  naked  Cupids  hopping  about  in  an  oval 
wreath  of  forget-me-nots. 

"  How  sentimental !"  said  Uncle  Paul,  adding,  after 
a  while,  "  If  the  little  wretches  only  had  wings,  they 
might  pass  for  angels,  but  as  they  are  they  leave  some- 
thing to  be  desired."  Then,  putting  down  the  vase, 
he  told  me  to  be  a  good  girl  (he  had  just  brought  me 
over  to  stay  a  little  while  at  Komaritz),  got  into  his 
dog-cart,  and  drove  off. 

Scarcely  had  the  door  closed  behind  him  wLen 
Harry  brought  from  the  next  room  a  long  quill  pen 
and  a  large  inkstand,  and  went  to  work  eagerly  and 
mysteriously  at  the  vase. 

At  about  five  in  the  afternoon  all  assembled  for  after- 
noon coffee.  Finally  Herr  Schmied  appeared,  a  book 
in  his  hand. 

"What  are  you  doing  there?"  he  asked  his  pupil, 
unsuspectingly. 

"I  am  giving  these  naughty  boys  swimming- 
breeches,  Herr  Schmied.  Uncle  Paul  thought  it 
hardly  the  thing  for  you  to  have  presented  this  vase 
to  a  lady,  and  so " 

The  sentence  was  never  finished.  There  was  a  low 
laugh  from  the  other  end  of  the  room,  where  Made- 
moiselle Duval,  ensconced  behind  the  coffee-equipage, 
had  been  an  unobserved  spectator  of  the  scene.  Herr 
Schmied  flushed  crimson,  and,  quite  losing  his  usual 
self-control,  he  gave  Harry  a  sounding  box  on  the 
ear,  and  Harry — well,  Harry  returned  it. 

Herr  Schmied  seized  him  by  the  shoulders  as  if  to 


"O  THO U,  MF  AUSTRIA!"  59 

shake  and  strike  him,  then  bit  his  lip,  drew  a  long 
breath,  released  the  boy,  and  left  the  room.  But 
Harry's  head  drooped  upon  his  breast,  and  he  ate  no 
supper  that  night.  He  knew  that  what  had  occurred 
could  not  be  condoned,  and  he  was  sorry. 

At  supper  Herr  Schmied  informed  Mademoiselle 
Duval  that  he  had  written  to  Baron  Leskjewitsch  that 
unforeseen  circumstances  made  imperative  his  return 
to  Germany.  "  I  did  not  think  it  necessary  to  be  more 
explicit  as  to  the  true  cause  of  my  sudden  departure," 
he  added. 

Harry  grew  very  pale. 

After  supper,  as  I  was  sitting  with  Heda  upon  the 
garden-steps,  looking  for  falling  stars  that  would  not 
fall,  we  observed  Herr  Schmied  enter  the  room  behind 
us ;  it  was  quite  empty,  but  the  lamp  was  lighted  on 
the  table.  Soon  afterwards,  Harry  appeared.  Neither 
of  them  noticed  us. 

Slowly,  lingeringly,  Harry  approached  his  tutor,  and 
plucked  him  by  the  sleeve. 

Herr  Schmied  looked  around. 

"  Must  you  really  go  away,  Herr  Schmied  ?"  the  boy 
asked,  in  distress. 

"  Yes,"  the  tutor  replied,  very  gravely. 

Harry  bit  his  lip,  seemed  undecided  what  to  do  or 
say,  and  finally,  leaning  his  head  a  little  on  one  side, 
asked,  caressingly,  "  Even  if  I  beg  your  pardon  ?" 

Herr  Schmied  smiled,  surprised  and  touched.  He 
took  the  boy's  hand  in  his,  and  said,  sadly,  "  Even 
then,  Harry.  Yet  I  am  sorry,  for  I  was  beginning  to 
be  very  fond  of  you." 


60  "  0  THOU,  MY  A  USTRIA  I" 

The  tears  wore  in  Harry's  eyes,  but  he  evidently  felt 
that  no  entreaty  would  be  of  any  avail. 

In  fact,  the  next  morning  Herr  Schmied  took  his 
departure.  A  few  days  afterwards,  however,  Harry 
received  a  letter  from  him  with  a  foreign  post-mark. 
He  had  written  four  long  pages  to  his  former  pupil. 
Harry  flushed  with  pride  and  joy  as  he  read  it,  and 
answered  it  that  very  evening. 

Herr  Schmied  is  now  Professor  of  Modern  History 
in  a  foreign  university,  his  name  is  well  known,  and 
he  is  held  in  high  honour.  He  still  corresponds  with 
Harry,  whose  next  tutor  was  a  French  abbe.  The 
cause  of  the  abbe's  dismissal  I  have  forgotten ;  indeed, 
I  remember  only  one  more  among  the  numerous  pre- 
ceptors, and  he  was  the  last, — a  German  from  Bohe- 
mia, called  Ewald  Finke. 

His  name  was  not  really  Ewald,  but  Michael,  but  he 
called  himself  Ewald  because  he  liked  it  better.  He 
had  studied  abroad,  which  always  impressed  us  favour- 
ably, and,  as  Uncle  Karl  was  told,  he  had  already  won 
some  reputation  in  Leipsic  by  his  literary  efforts.  Ho 
was  looking  for  a  situation  as  tutor  merely  that  he 
might  have  some  rest  from  intellectual  labours  that 
had  been  excessive.  "  Moreover,"  his  letter  of  recom- 
mendation from  a  well-known  professor  went  on  to 
say,  "  the  Herr  Baron  will  not  be  slow  to  discover  that 
he  is  here  brought  into  contact  with  a  rarely-gifted 
nature,  one  of  those  in  intercourse  with  whom  allow- 
ance must  be  made  for  certain  peculiarities  which  at 
first  may  prove  rather  annoying."  Uncle  Karl  in 
Btantly  wrote,  in  reply,  that  "  annoying  peculiarities' 


«O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  61 

were  of  no  consequence, — that  he  would  accord  un- 
limited credit  in  the  matter  of  allowance  to  the  new 
tutor.  In  fact,  he  took  such  an  interest  in  the  genius 
thus  offered  him  that  he  prolonged  his  stay  in  Koma- 
ritz  to  two  weeks,  instead  of  departing  at  the  end  of 
three  days,  as  he  had  at  first  intended,  solely  in  expec- 
tation of  the  new  tutor. 

By  the  way,  those  who  are  familiar  with  my  uncle's 
morbid  restlessness  may  imagine  the  joy  of  his  house- 
hold at  his  prolonged  stay  in  Komaritz. 

Not  knowing  how  otherwise  to  kill  his  time,  he  hit 
upon  the  expedient  of  shooting  it,  and,  as  the  hunting 
season  had  not  begun,  he  shot  countless  butterflies. 
We  found  them  lying  in  heaps  among  the  flowers,  little, 
shapeless,  shrivelled  things,  mere  specks  of  brilliant 
dust.  "When  weary  of  this  amusement,  he  would  seat 
himself  at  the  piano  and  play  over  and  over  again  the 
same  dreary  air,  grasping  uncertainly  at  the  chords, 
and  holding  them  long  and  firmly  when  once  he  had 
got  them. 

Harry  assured  me  that  he  was  playing  a  funeral 
march  for  the  dead  butterflies,  and  I  supposed  it  to  be 
his  own  composition.  This,  however,  was  not  the  case, 
and  the  piece  was  not  a  funeral  march,  but  a  polonaise, 
— "  The  Last  Thought  of  Count  Oginski,"  who  is  said 
to  have  killed  himself  after  jotting  down  this  music. 

At  last  Herr  Finke  made  his  appearance.  He  was 
a  tall,  beardless  young  man,  with  hair  cut  close  to  his 
head,  and  a  sallow  face  adorned  with  the  scars  of  several 
sabre-cuts,  a  large  mouth,  a  pointed  nose,  the  nostrils 
quivering  with  critical  scorn,  and  staring  black  eyes 

6 


62  "O  THOU,  Sir  AUSTRIA!" 

with  large  round  spectacles,  through  which  they  saw 
only  what  they  chose  to  see. 

Uncle  Karl's  reception  of  him  was  grandiloquent. 
"Enter,"  he  exclaimed,  going  to  meet  him  with  ex- 
tended hands.  "  My  house  is  open  to  you.  I  delight 
in  grand  natures  which  refuse  to  be  cramped  within 
the  limits  of  conventionality." 

Herr  Finke  replied  to  this  high-sounding  address 
only  by  a  rather  condescending  nod,  shaking  the  prof- 
fered hand  as  if  bestowing  a  favour. 

After  he  had  been  refreshed  with  food  and  drink, 
Uncle  Kari  challenged  him  to  a  fencing-match,  which 
lasted  upward  of  an  hour,  at  the  end  of  which  time 
my  uncle  confessed  that  the  new  tutor  was  a  master 
of  fence,  immediately  wrote  to  thank  the  illustrious 
professor  to  whom  he  owed  this  treasure  of  learning, 
and  left  Komaritz  that  same  evening. 

Herr  Finke  remained  precisely  three  weeks  in  his 
new  situation.  So  far  as  lessons  went  he  seemed  suc- 
cessful enough,  but  his  "annoying  peculiarities"  ended 
in  an  outbreak  of  positive  insanity,  during  which  he 
set  fire  to  the  frame  house  on  the  hill  where  he  was 
lodged,  and  was  carried  off  to  a  mad-house  in  a  strait- 
waistcoat,  raving  wildly. 

Uncle  Karl  was  sadly  disappointed,  and  suddenly 
resolved  to  send  Harry  to  a  public  school,  being  con- 
vinced that  no  good  could  come  of  tutors. 

From  this  time  forward  the  young  Leskjewitschea 
came  to  Komaritz  only  for  the  vacations. 


«O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA  I"  63 


VII. 

We  were  very  good  friends,  Harry  and  I, — there's 
no  denying  that.  We  told  each  other  all  our  secrets, 
— at  least  I  told  him  mine, — and  we  divided  all  our 
bon-bons  with  each  other.  Sometimes  on  Sunday  after- 
noons we  played  at  marriage,  the  ceremony  giving 
occasion  for  a  deal  of  delightful  "  dressing  up."  More- 
over, we  had  long  been  agreed  that,  sooner  or  later, 
this  play  should  become  earnest,  and  that  we  would 
marry  each  other.  But  when  the  first  down  became 
perceptible  on  Harry's  upper  lip,  our  mutual  friendship 
began  to  flag.  It  was  just  about  the  time  that  Harry 
went  to  a  public  school. 

His  indifference  grieved  me  at  first,  then  I  became 
consoled,  and  at  last  I  was  faithless  to  him.  A  cousin 
of  Harry's,  who  came  to  Komaritz  to  spend  the  holi- 
days, gave  occasion  for  this  breach  of  faith.  His  name 
was  Lato,  Count  Treurenberg.  The  name  alone  kindled 
my  enthusiasm.  He  had  scarcely  been  two  days  in 
Komaritz,  where  I  too  was  staying  at  the  time,  when 
Hedwig  confided  to  me  that  she  was  in  love  with  him. 
"  So  am  I,"  I  replied.  I  was  firmly  convinced  that 
this  was  so. 

My  confession  was  the  signal  for  a  highly  dramatic 
scene.  Hedwig,  who  had  frequently  been  to  the 
theatre  in  Prague,  ran  about  the  room  wringing  her 
hands  and  crying,  "  Both  with  the  same  man  I  both ! — 
it  is  terrible  I  One  of  us  must  resign  him,  or  the  con- 
sequences will  be  fearful." 


64  "0  TIIOU,  MY  A USTRIA 1" 

I  diffidently  offered  to  sacrifice  my  passion. 

She  shrieked,  "  No,  I  never  can  accept  such  a  sacri- 
fice  from  you !  Fate  shall  decide  between  us." 

Whereupon  we  put  one  white  and  one  black  bean  in 
a  little,  broken,  handle-less  coffee-pot  which  we  found 
in  the  garret,  and  which  Hedwig  called  an  urn. 

The  decisive  moment  made  my  heart  beat.  "We  cast 
lots  for  precedence  in  drawing  from  the  urn.  It  fell  to 
me,  and  I  drew  out  a  black  bean !  The  moment  was 
thrilling.  Heda  sank  upon  a  sofa,  and  fanned  her  joy- 
ful face  with  her  pocket-handkerchief.  She  declared 
that  if  she  had  drawn  the  black  bean  she  would  have 
attempted  her  life.  This  declaration  dispelled  my 
despair;  I  shuddered  at  the  idea  of  being  the  cause 
of  anything  so  horrible. 

From  that  day  Heda  never  spoke  to  Lato  von  Treu- 
renberg  without  drooping  her  head  on  one  side  and 
rolling  her  eyes  languishingly, — conduct  which  seemed 
to  cause  the  young  fellow  some  surprise,  but  which  he 
treated  with  great  courtesy,  while  Harry  used  to 
exclaim,  "  What  is  the  matter  with  you,  Heda  ?  You 
look  like  a  goose  in  a  thunder-storm !" 

My  behaviour  towards  Lato  underwent  no  change : 
I  had  drawn  the  "  black  ball,"  and,  in  consequence,  the 
most  cordial  friendship  soon  subsisted  between  us. 

It  would  have  been  difficult  not  to  like  Lato,  for  I 
have  never  met  a  more  amiable,  agreeable  young 
fellow. 

He  was  about  seventeen  years  old,  very  tall,  and 
stooped  slightly.  His  features  were  delicately  chis- 
elled; his  smile  was  quite  bewitching  in  its  dreamy, 


"0  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  65 

all-embracing  benevolence.  There  was  decided  melan- 
choly in  his  large,  half-veiled  eyes,  which  caused 
Hedwig  to  liken  him  to  Lord  Byron. 

His  complexion  was  rather  dark. — which  was  odd, 
as  his  hair  was  light  brown  touched  with  gold  at  the 
temples.  His  neck  was  too  long,  and  his  arms  were 
uncommonly  long.  All  his  appointments,  from  his 
coats  to  his  cigar-case,  were  extremely  elegant,  testify- 
ing to  a  degree  of  fastidiousness  thitherto  quite  un- 
known in  Komaritz.  Nevertheless,  he  seemed  very 
content  in  this  primitive  nest,  ignoring  all  discomfort, 
and  making  no  pretension.  Heda,  who  was  quick  to 
seize  upon  every  opportunity  to  admire  him,  called 
my  attention  to  his  amiable  forbearance,  or,  I  confess, 
I  should  not  have  noticed  it. 

From  Hedwig  I  learned  much  concerning  the  young 
man;  among  other  things,  she  gave  me  a  detailed 
account  of  his  family  circumstances.  His  mother  was, 
she  informed  me,  a  "mediatisirte."*  She  uttered  the 
word  reverently,  and,  when  I  confessed  that  I  did  not 
know  what  it  meant,  she  nearly  fainted.  His  father 
was  one  of  the  most  fascinating  men  in  Austria.  He 
is  still  living,  and  is  by  no  means,  it  seems,  at  the  end 
of  his  fascinations,  but,  being  a  widower,  hovers  about 
from  one  amusing  capital  to  another,  breaking  hearts 
for  pastime.  It  seems  to  be  a  wonderfully  entertain- 
ing occupation,  and,  when  one  once  indulges  in  it,  the 
habit  cannot  be  got  rid  of, — like  opium-eating. 

While  he  thus  paraded  his  brilliant  fascinations  in 

•  One  of  a  princely  family  who,  although  subject  to  royal  authority,  is 
allowed  to  retain  some  sovereign  privileges. 
•  6* 


bb  "O  T-ffOtf,  MF  AUSTRIA!" 

Ihu  ^ay  world,  he  did  not,  of  course,  find  much  time 
to  Interest  himself  in  his  boy,  who  was  left  to  the  care 
of  distant  relatives,  and  who,  when  found  to  be  back- 
ward in  his  studies,  was  placed,  I  believe  by  Uncle 
Karl's  advice,  under  the  care  of  a  Prague  professor  by 
the  name  of  Suwa,  who  kept,  as  Harry  once  told  me, 
a  kind  of  orthopaedic  institution  for  minds  that  lacked 
training. 

Beside  Lato,  during  that  vacation  there  were  two 
other  guests  at  Komaritz,  one  a  very  distant  cousin  of 
Harry's,  and  the  other  a  kind  of  sub-tutor  whose  duty 
it  was  to  coach  Harry  in  his  studies. 

We  could  not  endure  the  sub-tutor.  His  name  was 
Franz  Tuschalek ;  he  was  about  nineteen,  with  hands 
and  feet  like  shovels,  and  a  flat,  unmeaning  face.  His 
manner  was  intensely  servile,  and  his  coat-sleeves  and 
trousers  were  too  short,  which  gave  him  a  terribly  in- 
digent air.  One  could  not  help  regarding  him  with  a 
mixture  of  impatience  and  sympathy.  By  my  radical 
uncle's  express  desire,  he  and  Harry  called  each  other 
by  their  Christian  names.  Still,  obnoxious  as  poor 
Tuschalek  was  to  us,  he  was  more  to  our  minds  than 
the  distant  cousin. 

This  last  was  a  Pole,  about  twenty  years  old,  with  a 
sallow  face  and  long  oblique  eyes,  which  he  rolled  in  an 
extraordinary  way.  His  hair  was  black,  and  he  curled 
it  with  the  curling-tongs.  He  was  redolent  of  musk, 
and  affected  large  plaid  suits  of  clothes.  His  German 
was  not  good,  and  his  French  was  no  better,  but  he 
assured  us  that  he  was  a  proficient  in  Chinese  and 
Arabic.  He  was  always  playing  long  and  difficult 


"0  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIAN  67 

concertos  on  the  table,  but  he  never  touched  the  piano 
at  Komaritz,  declaring  that  the  instrument  was  worn 
out.  He  was  always  short  of  funds,  and  was  per- 
petually  boasting  of  the  splendour  of  his  family. 

He  frequently  sketched,  upon  some  stray  piece  of 
paper,  a  magnificent  and  romantic  structure,  which  he 
would  display  to  us  as  his  Polish  home, — "  our  ancestral 
castle." 

Sometimes  this  castle  appeared  with  two  turrets, 
sometimes  with  only  one,  a  fact  to  which  Harry  did 
not  fail  to  call  his  attention. 

His  distinguished  ancestry  was  a  topic  of  never- 
failing  interest  to  him ;  he  was  never  weary  of  explain- 
ing his  connection  with  various  European  reigning 
dynasties,  and  his  visiting-cards  bore  the  high-sounding 
names  "  Le  Comte  Ladislas  Othon  Fainacky  de  Chrast- 
Bambosch,"  although,  as  Harry  confided  to  us,  he  had 
no  right  to  the  title  of  comte,  being  the  son  of  a  needy 
Polish  baron. 

Although  Franz  Tuschalek  was  almost  as  obnoxious 
to  Harry  as  the  "  braggart  Sarmatian,"  as  Lato  called 
the  Pole,  he  never  allowed  his  antipathy  to  be  seen, 
but  treated  him  with  great  consideration,  as  he  did  all 
inferiors,  scarcely  allowing  himself  to  give  vent  to  his 
distaste  for  him  even  in  his  absence.  But  he  paraded 
his  dislike  of  Fainacky,  never  speaking  of  him  as  a 
guest,  but  as  an  "  invasion,"  and  always  trying  to  annoy 
him  by  some  boyish  trick. 

At  length,  one  Sunday,  the  crisis  in  Harry's  first 
vacation  occurred.  We  had  all  been  to  early  mass,  and 
the  celebrant  had  accompanied  us  back  to  Komaritz,  as 


68  "O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA /" 

•was  his  custom,  to  breakfast.  After  a  hasty  cup  of 
coffee  he  took  his  leave  of  us  children,  and  betook  him- 
self to  the  bailiffs  quarters,  where  we  more  than  sus- 
pected him  of  a  quiet  game  of  cards  with  that  official 
and  his  underlings. 

The  door  of  the  dining-room  leading  out  into  the  gar- 
den was  wide  open,  and  delicious  odours  from  the  moist 
flower-beds  floated  in  and  mingled  with  the  fragrance 
of  the  coffee.  It  had  rained  in  the  night,  but  the  sun 
had  emerged  from  the  clouds  and  had  thrown  a  golden 
veil  over  trees  and  shrubs.  We  were  just  rising  from 
table  when  the  "  braggart  Sarmatian"  entered,  booted 
and  spurred,  smelling  of  all  the  perfumes  of  Arabia, 
and  with  his  hair  beautifully  curled.  He  had  not  been 
to  mass,  and  had  breakfasted  in  his  room  in  the  frame 
house  on  the  hill,  which  had  been  rebuilt  since  the  fire. 
After  he  had  bidden  us  all  an  affected  good-morning, 
he  said,  turning  to  Harry, — 

"  Has  the  man  come  with  the  mail  ?" 

"  Yes,"  Harry  replied,  curtly. 

"  Did  no  registered  letter  come  for  me  ?" 

«No." 

"Strange!" 

"Very  strange,"  Harry  sneered.  "You  have  been 
expecting  that  letter  a  long  time.  If  I  were  you,  I'd 
investigate  the  matter." 

"  There's  something  wrong  with  the  post,"  the  Pole 
declared,  with  an  air  of  importance.  "  I  must  see 
about  it.  I  think  I  had  best  apply  to  my  uncle  the 
cabinet-minister." 

Harry  made  a  curious  grimace.     "  There  is  no  need 


"  O  THOU,  MY  A  USTRIA  I"  69 

to  exercise  your  powers  of  invention  for  me,"  he  ob- 
served. "  I  know  your  phrase-book  and  the  meaning 
of  each  individual  sentence.  '  Has  no  registered  letter 
come  for  me?'  means  'Lend  me  some  money.'  My 
father  instructed  me  to  supply  you  with  money  if  you 
needed  it,  but  never  with  more  than  ten  guilders  at  a 
time.  Here  they  are,  and,  if  you  wish  to  drive  to 

X ,  tell  the  bailiff  to  have  the  drag  harnessed  for 

you.  We — in  fact,  we  will  not  look  for  you  before 
evening.  Good-bye." 

"I  shall  have  to  call  you  to  account  some  day, 
Harry,"  Fainacky  said,  with  a  frown ;  then,  relapsing 
into  his  usual  languid  affectation  of  manner,  he  re- 
marked, over  his  shoulder,  to  Mademoiselle  Duval, 
"  C'est  un  enfant"  put  away  the  ten-guilder  piece  in 
a  gorgeous  leather  pocket-book,  and  left  the  room. 

Scarcely  had  the  door  closed  behind  him  when 
Harry  began  to  express  in  no  measured  terms  his 
views  with  regard  to  the  "  Polish  invasion."  Then  he 
set  his  wits  to  work  to  devise  some  plan  of  getting  rid 
of  Fainacky,  but  it  was  not  until  the  afternoon,  when 
we  were  assembled  in  the  dining-room  again,  that  a 
brilliant  idea  occurred  to  him  while  reading  Heine's 
"Romancero,"  a  book  which  he  loved  to  read  when 
Heda  and  I  were  by  because  it  was  a  forbidden  vol- 
ume to  us. 

Suddenly,  starting  up  from  his  half-reclining  position 
in  a  large  arm-chair,  he  snapped  his  fingers,  waved  his 
book  in  the  air,  and  exclaimed,  "  Eureka !" 

"  What  is  it  ?"  Lato  asked,  good-naturedly. 

"  I  have  found  something  to  drive  the  Pole  wild  I" 


70  "  0  THOU,  MY  A  USTRIA  I" 

cried  Harry,  rubbing  his  hands  with  delight.  Where- 
upon he  began  to  spout,  with  immense  enthusiasm  and 
shouts  of  laughter,  Heine's  "  Two  Knights,"  a  poem  in 
which  he  pours  out  his  bitterest  satire  upon  the  Poles, 
their  cause,  and  their  country.  This  precious  poem 
Harry  commanded  Tuschalek  to  write  out  in  his  finest 
round  hand  upon  a  large  sheet  of  paper,  which  was 
then  to  be  nailed  upon  the  door  of  Fainacky's  sleeping- 
apartment.  I  did  not  like  the  poem.  I  confess  my 
Polish  sympathies  were  strong,  and  I  did  not  approve 
of  ridiculing  the  "  braggart  Sarmatian's"  nation  by  way 
of  disgusting  him  with  Komaritz ;  but  nothing  that  I 
could  say  had  any  effect.  The  poem  was  written  out 
upon  the  largest  sheet  of  paper  that  the  house  afforded, 
and  was  the  first  thing  to  greet  the  eyes  of  Fainacky 
when  he  retired  to  his  room  for  the  night.  In  conse- 
quence, the  Sarmatian  declared,  the  next  morning,  at 
breakfast,  that  the  insult  thus  offered  to  his  nation  and 
himself  was  not  to  be  endured  by  a  man  of  honour, 
and  that  he  should  leave  Komaritz  that  very  day. 

Nevertheless,  he  stayed  four  weeks  longer,  during 
which  time,  however,  he  never  spoke  to  Harry  except 
upon  three  occasions  when  he  borrowed  money  of  him. 

Tuschalek  departed  at  an  earlier  date.  Harry's 
method  for  getting  rid  of  him  was  much  simpler,  and 
consisted  of  a  letter  to  his  father.  As  well  as  I  can 
recollect,  it  ran  thus : 

"Mr  DEAR  FATHER, — 

"  I  pray  you  send  Tuschalek  away.  I  assure  you  I 
will  study  diligently  without -him.  To  have  about  you 


"0  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  71 

a  fellow  hired  at  ten  guilders  a  month,  who  calls  you 
by  your  Christian  name,  is  very  deleterious  to  the 
character. 

"  Your  affectionate  son, 

"HAEBT. 

"  P.S. — Pray,  if  you  can,  help  him  to  another  situa- 
tion, for  I  can't  help  pitying  the  poor  devil." 

About  this  time  Lato  sprained  his  ankle  in  leaping 
a  ditch,  and  was  confined  for  some  days  to  a  lounge  in 
the  dining-room.  Heda  scarcely  left  his  side.  She 
brought  him  flowers,  offered  to  write  his  letters  for 
him,  and  finally  read  aloud  to  him  from  the  "  Journal 
des  Demoiselles."  Whether  he  was  much  edified  I  can- 
not say.  He  left  Komaritz  as  soon  as  his  ankle  was 
strong  again.  I  was  really  sorry  to  have  him  go ;  for 
years  we  heard  nothing  more  of  him. 

"  The  gypsy  1"  exclaimed  the  major.  "  How  fluently 
she  writes!  Who  would  have  thought  it  of  her!  I 
remember  that  Fainacky  perfectly  well, — a  genuine 
Polish  coxcomb  1  Lato  was  a  charming  fellow, — pity 
he  should  have  married  in  trade !" 

At  this  moment  a  loud  bell  reminded  the  old  cavalry- 
man that  the  afternoon  coffee  was  ready.  He  hurriedly 
slipped  his  niece's  manuscript  into  a  drawer  of  his 
writing-table,  and  locked  it  up  before  joining  his  family 
circle,  where  he  appeared  with  the  most  guileless  smile 
he  could  assume. 

Zdena  seemed  restless  and  troubled,  and  confessed  at 


72  "O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA  I" 

last  that  she  had  lost  her  diary,  which  she  was  quite 
sure  she  had  put  into  her  work-basket.  She  had  been 
writing  in  the  garden,  and  had  thrust  it  into  the  basket 
in  a  hurry.  The  major  seemed  uninterested  in  the  loss, 
but,  when  the  girl's  annoyance  reached  its  climax  in 
a  conjecture  that  the  cook  had,  by  mistake,  used  the 
manuscript  for  kindling,  he  comforted  her,  saying, 
"Nonsense!  the  thing  will  surely  be  found."  He 
could  not  bring  himself  to  resign  the  precious  docu- 
ment,— he  was  too  much  interested  in  reading  it. 

The  next  day,  after  luncheon,  while  Frau  Eosamunda 
was  refreshing  herself  with  an  afternoon  nap  and 
Zdena  was  in  the  garden  posing  for  the  Baron  von 
"Wenkendorf  as  the  goddess  of  Spring,  the  major  re- 
tired to  his  room  and  locked  himself  in,  that  he  might 
not  be  disturbed. 

"Could  she  possibly  have  fallen  in  love  with  that 
Lato  ?  Some  girls'  heads  are  full  of  sentimental  non- 
sense. But  I  hardly  think  it — and  so — "  he  went  on 
muttering  to  himself  whilst  finding  the  place  where  he 
had  left  off  on  the  previous  day. 

The  next  chapter  of  this  literary  chef-d'oeuvre  began 
as  follows : 

VIII. 

1  had  a  long  letter  to-day  from  Miss  O'Donnel  in 
Italy,  full  of  most  interesting  things.  One  of  the  two 
nieces  whom  she  is  visiting  is  being  trained  as  an  opera- 
singer.  She  seems  to  have  a  brilliant  career  before 
her.  In  Italy  they  call  her  " la  Patti  blonde"  and  her 


"  O  THOD,  MF  AUSTRIA  I"  73 

singing-teacher,  to  whom  she  pays  thirty-five  francs 
a  lesson,  declares  that  she  will  certainly  make  at  least 
a  hundred  thousand  francs  a  year  as  a  prima  donna. 
What  an  enviable  creature!  I,  too,  have  an  admi- 
rable voice.  Ah,  if  Uncle  Paul  would  only  let  me  be 
trained !  But  his  opinions  are  so  old-fashioned ! 

And  everything  that  Miss  O'Donnel  tells  me  about 
the  mode  of  life  of  the  Misses  Lyall  interests  me.  They 
live  with  their  mother  in  Italy,  and  receive  every  even- 
ing,— principally  gentlemen,  which,  it  seems,  is  the 
Italian  custom.  The  elder  Miss  Lyall  is  as  good  as  en- 
gaged to  a  distinguished  Milanese  who  lost  his  hair  in 
the  war  of  '59 ;  while  the  younger,  the  blonde  Patti, 
will  not  hear  of  marriage,  but  contents  herself  with 
turning  the  head  of  every  man  who  comes  near  her. 

Ah !  I  have  arrived  at  the  conviction  that  there  can 
be  no  finer  existence  than  that  of  a  young  girl  in  train- 
ing for  a  priraa  donna,  who  amuses  herself  in  the  mean 
time  by  turning  the  head  of  every  man  who  comes 
near  her. 

("  Goose  1"  exclaimed  the  major  at  this  point.) 

To-day  I  proposed  to  Uncle  Paul  that  he  should 

take  me  to  Italy  for  the  winter,  to  have  me  educated 
as  a  singer.  There  was  a  great  row.  Never  before, 
since  I  have  known  him,  has  he  spoken  so  angrily  to 
me. 

("I  should  think  not!"  growled  the  major  at  this 
point.) 

The  worst  was  that  he  blamed  Miss  O'Donnel 

for  putting  such  "stuff"  (thus  he  designated  my  love 
for  art)  into  my  head,  and  threatened  to  forbid  her  to 
*  7 


74  "0  THOU,  Mr  AUSTRIA  I" 

correspond  with  me.  Ah,  I  wept  for  the  entire  after- 
noon amid  the  ruins  of  my  Shattered  hopes.  I  am 
very  unhappy.  After  a  long  interruption,  the  idea 
has  occurred  to  me  to-day  of  continuing  my  memoirs. 


IX. 

HARRY   BECOMES  A  SOLDIER. 

Uncle  Karl  finally  yielded  to  Harry's  entreaties, 
and  allowed  him  to  enter  the  army.  That  very 
autumn  after  the  summer  which  Lato  and  Fainacky 
passed  at  Komaritz  he  was  to  enter  a  regiment  of 
hussars. 

It  had  been  a  problem  for  Uncle  Karl,  the  taming  of 
this  eager  young  nature,  and  I  think  he  was  rather 
relieved  by  the  military  solution  thus  afforded. 

As  Harry  of  course  had  nothing  to  do  in  town  before 
joining  his  regiment,  he  stayed  longer  than  usual  this 
year  in  Komaritz, — stayed  all  through  September  and 
until  late  in  October.  Komaritz  was  quite  deserted : 
Lato  had  gone,  the  Pole  had  gone;  but  Harry  still 
stayed  on. 

And,  strange  to  say,  now,  when  we  confronted  our 
first  long  parting,  our  old  friendship  gradually  revived, 
Btirred,  and  felt  that  it  had  been  living  all  this  time, 
although  it  had  had  one  or  two  naps.  How  well  I 
remember  the  day  when  he  came  to  Zirkow  to  take 
leave  of  ns of  me  I 

It  was  late  in  October,  and  the  skies  were  blue  but 
cold.  The  sun  shone  down  upon  the  earth  kindly, 


"O  THOU,  MF  AUSTRIA!"  75 

but  without  warmth.  A  thin  silvery  mist  floated 
along  the  ground.  The  bright-coloured  leaves  shiv- 
ered in  the  frosty  air. 

On  the  wet  lawn,  where  the  gossamers  gleamed  like 
steel,  lay  myriads  of  brown,  red,  and  yellow  leaves. 
The  song-birds  were  gone,  the  sparrows  twittered 
shrilly,  and  in  the  midst  of  the  brown  autumnal  deso- 
lation there  bloomed  in  languishing  loveliness  a  white 
rose  upon  a  leafless  stalk. 

With  a  scarlet  shawl  about  my  shoulders  and  my 
head  bare  I  was  sauntering  about  the  garden,  wander- 
ing, dreaming  through  the  frosty  afternoon.  I  heard 
steps  behind  me,  and  when  I  looked  round  I  saw 
Harry  approaching,  his  brows  knitted  gloomily. 

"  I  only  want  to  bid  you  '  good-bye,'  "  he  called  out 
to  me.  "  We  are  off  to-morrow." 

"  When  are  you  coming  back  ?"  I  asked,  hastily. 

"Perhaps  never,"  he  said,  with  an  important  air. 
'»  You  know — a  soldier " 

"  Yes,  there  is  a  threatening  of  war,"  I  whispered, 
and  my  childish  heart  felt  an  intolerable  pang  as  I 
spoke. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  tried  to  laugh. 

"And,  at  all  events,  you,  when  I  come  back,  will 
be  a  young  lady  with — lovers — and  you  will  hardly 
remember  me." 

"  Oh,  Harry,  how  can  you  talk  so  1" 

Eather  awkwardly  he  holds  out  to  me  his  long  slen- 
der hand,  in  which  I  place  my  own. 

Ah,  how  secure  my  cold,  weak  fingers  feel  in  that 
•V7arm  strong  hand!  Why  do  I  suddenly  recall  the 


76  "O  THOU,  Mr  AUSTRIA!" 

long-past  moonlit  evenings  in  Komaritz  when  we  sat 
together  on  the  garden-steps  and  Harry  told  me  ghost- 
stories,  in  dread  of  which,  when  they  grew  too  ghastly, 
I  used  to  cling  close  to  him  as  if  to  find  shelter  in  his 
strong  young  life  from  the  bloodless  throng  of  spirits 
he  was  evoking  ? 

Thus  we  stand,  hand  in  hand,  before  the  white  rose, 
the  last  which  autumn  had  left.  It  droops  above  us, 
and  its  cheering  fragrance  mingles  with  the  autumnal 
odours  around  us.  I  pluck  it,  stick  it  in  Harry's 
button-hole,  and  then  suddenly  begin  to  sob  convul- 
sively. He  clasps  me  close,  close  in  his  arms,  kisses 
me,  and  murmurs,  "  Do  not  forget  me  1"  and  I  kiss  him 
too,  and  say,  "Never — never!"  while  around  us  the 
faded  leaves  fall  silently  upon  the  grass. 


MT   EDUCATION. 

Now  follow  a  couple  of  very  colourless  years.  There 
was  nothing  more  to  anticipate  from  the  summers. 
For,  although  Heda  regularly  appeared  at  Komaritz  as 
soon  as  the  city  was  too  hot  or  too  deserted,  she  did 
not  add  much  to  my  enjoyment.  Komaritz  itself 
seemed  changed  when  Harry  was  no  longer  there  to 
turn  everything  upside-down  with  his  good-humoured, 
madcap  ways. 

And  there  was  a  change  for  the  worse  in  our  cir- 
cumstances ;  affairs  at  Zirkow  were  not  so  prosperous 
as  they  had  been. 


"  O  THOU,  MY  A  VSTR1A  /"  77 

To  vary  the  monotony  of  his  country  life,  my  uncle 
had  built  a  brewery,  from  which  he  promised  himself 
a  large  increase  of  income.  It  was  to  be  a  model 
brewery,  but  after  it  was  built  the  startling  discovery 
was  made  that  there  was  not  water  enough  to  work 
it.  For  a  while,  water  was  brought  from  the  river 
in  wagons  drawn  by  four  horses,  but,  when  this  was 
found  to  be  too  expensive,  the  brewery  was  left  to 
itself. 

For  years  now  it  has  remained  thus  passive,  digest- 
ing in  triumphant  repose  the  sums  of  money  which  it 
swallowed  up.  The  monster  1 

Whenever  there  is  any  little  dispute  between  my 
uncle  and  my  aunt,  she  is  certain  to  throw  his  brew- 
house  in  bis  face.  But,  instead  of  being  crushed  by  the 
mischief  he  has  wrought,  he  declares,  "The  project 
was  admirable :  my  idea  was  a  brilliant  one — if  it  had 
only  succeeded !" 

But  it  did  not  succeed. 

The  consequence  was — retrenchment  and  economy. 
My  aunt  dismissed  two  servants,  my  uncle  kept  only 
a  pair  of  driving  horses,  and  my  new  gowns  were 
made  out  of  my  aunt  Therese's  old  ones. 

The  entire  winter  we  spent  at  Zirkow,  and  my  only 
congenial  friend  was  my  old  English  governess,  the 
Miss  O'Donnel  already  mentioned,  who  came  shortly 
before  Harry's  entrance  into  the  army,  not  so  much  to 
teach  me  English  as  to  learn  German  herself. 

Born  in  Ireland,  and  a  Catholic,  she  had  always  had 
excellent  situations  in  the  most  aristocratic  English 
families.  This  had  given  her,  besides  her  other  ac- 

7» 


78  "O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!" 

quirements,  a  great  familiarity  with  the  curious  pecu- 
liarities of  the  British  peerage,  and  with  social  distinc- 
tions of  rank  in  England,  as  to  which  she  enlightened 
me,  along  with  much  other  valuable  information. 

At  first  I  thought  her  quite  ridiculous  in  many 
respects, — her  general  appearance, — she  had  once  been 
a  beauty,  and  still  wore  corkscrew  curls, — her  way  of 
humming  to  herself  old  Irish  ballads,  "  Nora  Creina," 
"  The  harp  that  once  through  Tara's  halls,"  etc.,  with 
a  cracked  voice  and  unconscious  gestures, — her  for- 
mality and  sensitiveness.  After  a  while  I  grew  fond 
of  her.  What  quantities  of  books  she  read  aloud  to  me 
in  the  long  evenings  in  January  and  December,  while 
my  wooden  needles  clicked  monotonously  as  I  knitted 
woollen  comforters  for  the  poor! — all  Walter  Scott's 
novels,  Dickens  and  Thackeray,  many  of  the  works 
of  English  historians,  from  the  academic,  fluent  Gibbon 
to  that  strange  prophet  of  history,  Carlyle,  and  every 
day  I  had  to  study  with  her  one  act  of  Shakespeare, 
which  bored  me  at  first.  She  was  so  determined  to 
form  my  literary  taste  that  while  my  maid  was 
brushing  my  hair  she  would  read  aloud  some  lighter 
work,  such  as  "The  Vicar  of  Wakefield"  or  Doctor 
Johnson's  "  Easselas." 

As  Uncle  Paul  was  very  desirous  to  perfect  my  edu- 
cation as  far  as  possible,  he  was  not  content  with  these 
far-reaching  efforts,  but,  with  a  view  to  further  accom- 
plishments on  my  part,  sent  me  thrice  a  week  to  X , 

where  an  old  pianiste,  who  was  said  to  have  refused 
a  Eussian  prince,  and  was  now  humpbacked,  gave  me 
lessons  on  the  piano ;  and  a  former  ballerina,  at  present 


"O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA  1"  79 

married  to  the  best  caterer  in  X ,  taught  me  to 

dance. 

This  last  was  a  short,  fat,  good-humoured  person  with 
an  enormous  double  chin  and  a  complexion  spoiled  by 
bad  rouge.  "When  a  ballet-dancer  she  had  been  known 
as  Angiolina  Chiaramonte;  her  name  now  is  Frau 
Anna  Schwanzara.  She  always  lost  her  breath,  and 
sometimes  the  buttons  off  her  waist,  when  she  danced 
for  her  pupils,  and  she  prided  herself  upon  being  able 
to  teach  every  known  dance,  even  to  the  cancan.  I 
did  not  learn  the  cancan,  but  I  did  learn  the  fandango, 
the  czardas,  and  the  Highland  fling,  with  many  an- 
other  national  dance.  Waltzes  and  polkas  I  did  not 
learn,  because  we  had  no  one  for  a  partner  to  practise 
with  me ;  Frau  Schwanzara  was  too  short-breathed, 
although  she  was  very  good-humoured  and  did  her 
best. 

Sometimes  I  thought  it  very  hard  to  have  to  get  up 
so  early  and  drive  between  high  walls  of  snow  in  a 
rattling  inspector's  wagon  (Uncle  Paul  would  not 
allow  his  last  good  carriage  to  be  used  on  these  jour- 
neys) two  long  leagues  to  X ,  but  it  was,  at  all 

events,  a  break  in  the  monotony  of  my  life. 

If  I  was  not  too  sleepy,  we  argued  the  whole  way, 
Miss  O'Donnel  and  I,  usually  over  some  historic  event, 
such  as  the  execution  of  Louis  XVI.  or  Cromwell's 
rebellion.  Sometimes  we  continued  our  debate  as  we 
walked  about  the  town,  where  we  must  have  been 
strange  and  yet  familiar  figures.  Miss  O'Donnel  cer- 
tainly was  odd  in  appearance.  She  always  wore  a 
long  gray  cloth  cloak,  under  which,  to  guard  against 


80  "0  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!" 

dirt,  she  kilted  up  her  petticoats  so  high  that  her 
red  stockings  gleamed  from  afar.  On  her  bond  was 
perched  a  black  velvet  bonnet  with  a  scarlet  pom- 
pon, and  in  summer  and  winter  she  carried  the  same 
bulgy  green  umbrella,  which  she  called  her  "  Gamp." 
Once  we  lost  each  other  in  the  midst  of  a  particularly 
lively  discussion.  Nothing  daunted,  she  planted  her- 
self at  a  street-corner,  and,  pounding  the  pavement 
with  her  umbrella,  called,  lustily,  "Zdenal  Zdenal 
Zdena !"  until  a  policeman,  to  whom  I  described  her, 
conducted  me  to  her. 

In  addition  to  Miss  O'Donnel's  peculiarities,  the 
extraordinary  structure  of  our  vehicle  must  have  at- 
tracted some  attention  in  X .  It  was  a  long,  old- 
fashioned  coach  hung  on  very  high  springs,  and  it 
looked  very  like  the  shabby  carriages  seen  following 
the  hearse  at  third-class  funerals.  Twin  sister  of  the 
Komaritz  "  Noah's  Ark,"  it  served  a  double  purpose, 
and  could  be  taken  apart  in  summer  and  used  as  an 
open  carriage.  Sometimes  it  fell  apart  of  itself.  Once 
when  we  were  driving  quickly  through  the  market- 
square  and  past  the  officers'  casino  in  X ,  the  en- 
tire carriage  window  fell  out  upon  the  pavement.  The 
coachman  stopped  the  horses,  and  a  very  tall  hussar 
picked  up  the  window  and  handed  it  in  to  me,  saying, 
with  a  smile,  "  You  have  dropped  something,  made- 
moiselle 1"  I  was  deeply  mortified,  but  I  would  not  for 
the  world  have  shown  that  I  was  so.  I  said,  simply, 
"  Thank  you  ;  put  it  down  there,  if  you  please,"  point- 
ing to  the  opposite  seat, — as  if  dropping  a  window 
out  of  the  carriage  were  the  most  ordinary  every-day 


"O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  81 

occurrence.  Upon  my  reply  to  him  he  made  a  pro- 
found bow,  which  I  thought  all  right.  He  was  a  late 
arrival  in  the  garrison ;  the  other  officers  knew  us  or 
our  carriage  by  sight.  Every  one  of  them,  when  he 

came  to  X ,  paid  his  respects  to  my  uncle,  who 

in  due  course  of  time  returned  the  visit,  and  there 
was  an  end  of  it.  The  officers  were  never  invited  to 
Zirkow. 

Sometimes  the  roads  were  so  blocked  with  snow  that 
we  could  rot  drive  to  town,  nor  could  we  walk  far. 
For  the  sake  of  exercise,  or  what  Miss  O'Donnel  called 
our  "  daily  constitutional,"  we  used  then  to  walk  num- 
berless times  around  the  house,  where  the  gardener 
had  cleared  a  path  for  us.  As  we  walked,  Miss  O'Don- 
nel told  me  stories  from  the  Arabian  Nights  or  Ovid's 
Metamorphoses,  varied  sometimes  by  descriptions  of 
life  among  the  British  aristocracy.  When  once  she 
was  launched  upon  this  last  topic,  I  would  not  let  her 
finish, — I  besieged  her  with  questions.  She  showed 
me  the  picture  of  one  of  her  pupils,  the  Lady  Alice 

B ,  who  married  the  Duke  of  G and  was  the 

queen  of  London  society  for  two  years. 

"  "Tis  odd  how  much  you  look  like  her,"  she  often 
said  to  me.  "  You  are  sure  to  make  a  sensation  in  the 
world;  only  have  patience.  You  are  born  to  play  a 
great  part." 

If  Uncle  Paul  had  heard  her,  I  believe  he  would 
have  killed  her. 

Every  evening  we  played  a  rubber  of  whist.  Miss 
O'Donnel  never  could  remember  what  cards  were  out, 
and,  whenever  we  wished  to  recall  a  card  or  to  trans- 


82  "O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!" 

gress  some  rule  of  the  game,  Aunt  Rosamunda  always 
said,  "  That  is  not  allowed  at  the  Jockey  Club." 

Once  my  uncle  and  aunt  took  me  upon  a  six  weeks' 
pleasure-tour, — or,  rather,  an  educational  excursion. 
We  thoroughly  explored  the  greater  part  of  Germany 
and  Italy  on  this  occasion,  travelling  very  simply,  with 
very  little  luggage,  never  speaking  to  strangers,  having 
intercourse  exclusively  with  pictures,  sculptures,  and 
valets-de-place.  After  thus  becoming  acquainted,  in 
Baedeker's  society,  with  a  new  piece  of  the  world,  as 
Aunt  Rosamunda  observed  with  satisfaction,  we  re- 
turned to  Zirkow,  and  life  went  on  as  before. 

And  really  my  lonely  existence  would  not  have 
struck  me  as  anything  extraordinary,  if  Iledwig  had 
not  been  at  hand  to  enlighten  me  as  to  my  deprivations. 

She  had  been  introduced  into  society,  and  wrote  me 
of  her  conquests.  Last  summer  she  brought  a  whole 
trunkful  of  faded  bouquets  with  her  to  Komaritz, — ball- 
trophies.  Besides  this  stuff,  she  brought  two  other 
acquisitions  with  her  to  the  country, — a  sallow  com- 
plexion and  an  adjective  which  she  used  upon  every 
occasion — "impossible!"  She  tossed  it  about  to  the 
right  and  left,  applying  it  to  everything  in  the  dear 
old  nest  which  I  so  dearly  loved,  and  which  she  now 
never  called  anything  save  "  Mon  exil."  The  house  at 
Komaritz,  the  garden,  my  dress, — all  fell  victims  to 
this  adjective. 

Two  of  her  friends  shortly  followed  her  to  Koma- 
ritz, with  a  suitable  train  of  governesses  and  maids, — • 
countesses  from  Prague  society,  Mimi  and  Franziska 
Zctt. 


«O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  83 

They  were  not  nearly  so  affected  as  Heda, — in  fact, 
they  were  not  affected  at  all,  but  were  sweet  and  nat- 
ural, very  pretty,  and  particularly  pleasant  towards  me. 
But  we  were  not  congenial ;  we  had  nothing  to  say  to 
one  another;  we  had  no  interests  in  common.  They 
were  quite  indifferent  to  my  favourite  heroes,  from  the 
Gracchi  to  the  First  Consul ;  in  fact,  they  knew  hardly 
anything  about  them,  and  I  knew  still  less  of  the 
Rudis,  Nikis,  Taffis,  and  whatever  else  the  young 
gentlemen  were  called,  with  whom  they  danced  and 
flirted  at  balls  and  parties,  and  about  whom  they  now 
gossiped  with  Heda. 

They,  too,  brought  each  a  trunkful  of  faded  bouquets, 
and  one  day  they  piled  them  all  up  on  the  grass  in  the 
garden  and  set  fire  to  them.  They  declared  that  it 
was  the  custom  in  society  in  Vienna  thus  to  burn  on 
Ash  Wednesday  every  relic  of  the  Carnival.  To  be 
sure,  it  was  not  Ash  Wednesday  in  Komaritz,  and  the 
Carnival  was  long  past,  but  that  was  of  no  conse- 
quence. 

The  favourite  occupation  of  the  three  young  ladies 
was  to  sit  in  the  summer-house,  with  a  generous  supply 
of  iced  raspberry  vinegar,  and  make  confession  of  the 
various  passions  funestes  which  they  had  inspired.  I 
sat  by  and  listened  mutely. 

Once  Mimi  amiably  asked  me  to  give  my  experience. 
I  turned  my  head  away,  and  murmured,  ashamed,  "  No 
one  ever  made  love  to  me."  Mimi,  noticing  my  dis- 
tress, put  her  finger  beneath  my  chin,  just  as  if  she 
had  been  my  grand-aunt,  and  said,  "Only  wait  until 
you  come  out,  and  you  will  bear  the  palm  away  from 


84  "O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!" 

all  of  us,  for  you  are  by  long  odds  the  prettiest  of 
us  all." 

When  afterwards  I  looked  in  the  glass,  I  thought 
she  was  right. 

"  Until  you  go  into  society,"  Mimi  had  said.  Good 
heavens  1  into  society  1 — 1 1  For  some  time  a  suspicion 
had  dawned  upon  me  that  Uncle  Paul  did  not  mean 
that  I  should  ever  "  go  into  society."  When,  the  day 
after  Mimi's  portentous  speech,  I  returned  to  Zirkow, 
I  determined  to  put  an  end  to  all  uncertainty  upon  the 
subject. 

After  dinner — it  had  been  an  uncommonly  good 
one — I  put  my  hand  caressingly  within  my  uncle'rf 
arm,  and  whispered,  softly,  "  Uncle,  do  you  never  mean 
to  take  me  to  balls,  eh  ?" 

He  had  been  very  gay,  but  he  at  once  grew  grave, 
as  he  replied, — 

"  What  good  would  balls  do  you  ?  Make  your  eyes 
droop,  and  your  feet  ache  1  I  can't  endure  the  thought 
of  having  you  whirled  about  by  all  the  young  cox- 
combs of  Prague  and  then  criticised  afterwards.  Mar- 
riages are  made  in  heaven,  Zdena,  and  your  fate  will 
find  you  here,  you  may  be  sure." 

"  But  I  am  not  thinking  of  marriage,"  I  exclaimed, 
indignantly.  "I  want  to  see  the  world,  uncle  dear; 
can  you  not  understand  that  T  and  I  tenderly  stroked 
his  coat-sleeve. 

He  shook  his  curly  head  energetically. 

"  Be  thankful  that  you  know  nothing  of  the  world," 
he  said,  with  emphasis. 

And  I  suddenly  recalled  the  intense  bitterness  in  my 


"0  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  85 

mother's  tone  as  she  uttered  the  word  "  world,"  when 
I  waked  in  the  dark  night  and  found  her  kneeling, 
crying,  at  my  bedside  in  our  old  Paris  home. 

"  Is  it  really  so  very  terrible — the  world  ?"  I  asked, 
meekly,  and  yet  incredulously. 

"  Terrible  1"  he  repeated  my  word  with  even  moro 
energy  than  was  usual  with  him.  "  It  is  a  hot-bed  of 
envy  and  vanity,  a  place  where  one  learns  to  be  ashamed 
of  his  best  friend  if  he  chance  to  wear  an  ill-made  coat ; 
that  is  the  world  you  are  talking  of.  I  do  not  wish 
you  to  know  anything  about  it." 

This  was  all  he  would  say. 

It  might  be  supposed  that  the  unattractive  picture 
of  the  world  drawn  by  Uncle  Paul  would  have  put  a 
stop  at  once  and  forever  to  any  desire  of  mine  for 
a  further  acquaintance  with  it,  but — there  is  ever  a 
charm  about  what  is  forbidden.  At  present  I  have 
not  the  faintest  desire  to  visit  Pekin,  but  if  I  were 
forbidden  to  go  near  that  capital  I  should  undoubtedly 
be  annoyed. 

And  day  follows  day.  Nearly  a  year  has  passed 
since  that  unedifying  conversation  with  my  uncle. 

The  only  amusement  that  varied  the  monotony  of 
our  existence  was  a  letter  at  long  intervals  from 
Harry.  For  a  time  he  was  stationed  in  Salzburg; 
for  a  year  he  has  been  in  garrison  in  Yienna,  where, 
of  course,  he  is  absorbed  in  the  whirl  of  Viennese 
society.  I  must  confess  that  it  did  not  greatly  please 
me  when  I  first  learned  that  he  had  entered  upon  that 
brilliant  worldly  scene:  will  he  not  come  to  be  like 

8 


86  "0  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA  I" 

Hedwig?  My  uncle  declares  that  the  world  is  the 
hot-bed  of  envy  and  vanity;  and  yet  there  must  be 
natures  upon  which  poisonous  atmospheres  produce 
no  effect,  just  as  there  are  men  who  can  breathe  with 
impunity  the  air  of  the  Pontine  marshes ;  and  Harry's 
nature  is  one  of  these.  At  least  so  it  would  seem 
from  his  letters,  they  are  so  cordial  and  simple,  such 
warm  affection  speaks  in  every  line.  A  little  while 
ago  he  sent  mo  his  photograph.  I  liked  it  extremely, 
but  I  did  not  say  so;  all  the  more  loudly,  however, 
did  my  uncle  express  his  admiration.  He  offered  to 
wager  that  Harry  is  the  handsomest  officer  in  the 
entire  army,  and  he  shouted  loudly  for  Krupitsehka, 
to  show  him  the  picture. 

Harry  told  us  one  interesting  piece  of  news, — I  for- 
get whether  it  was  this  winter  or  the  last ;  perhaps  it 
was  still  longer  ago,  for  Harry  was  stationed  in  Enns 
at  the  time,  and  the  news  related  to  our  old  friend 
Treurenberg. 

He  bad  married  a  girl  in  the  world  of  trade, — a 
Fraulein  Selina  von  Harfink.  Harry,  whom  Lato  had 
bidden  to  his  marriage,  and  who  had  gone  for  old 
friendship's  sake  from  Enns  to  Vienna  to  be  the 
escort  in  the  church  of  the  first  of  the  eight  brides- 
maids, made  very  merry  in  his  letter  over  the  festivity. 

We  were  all  intensely  surprised ;  we  had  not  heard 
a  word  of  Lato's  betrothal,  and  the  day  after  Harry's 
letter  came  the  announcement  of  the  marriage. 

Uncle  Paul,  who  takes  most  of  the  events  of  life 
very  philosophically,  grew  quite  angry  on  learning  of 
this  marriage. 


"O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  87 

Since  Lato  has  married  for  money,  he  cares  nothing 
more  for  him. 

"  I  should  not  care  if  he  had  made  a  fool  of  himself 
and  married  an  actress,"  he  exclaimed,  over  and  over 
again,  "  but  to  sell  himself — ugh !" 

When  I  suggested,  "Perhaps  he  fell  in  love  with 
Selina,"  my  uncle  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  seemed 
to  consider  any  such  possibility  entirely  out  of  the 
question. 

We  talked  for  two  weeks  at  Zirkow  about  Lato  Treu- 
renberg's  marriage. 

Now  we  have  almost  forgotten  it.  Since  Lato  has 
been  married  he  has  been  quite  estranged  from  his 
former  associations. 

To-day  is  my  birthday.  I  am  nineteen  years  old. 
How  kind  my  uncle  and  aunt  are  to  me !  How  they 
try  to  give  me  pleasure!  My  heap  of  presents  was 
really  grand.  Arrayed  about  my  cake,  with  its  lighted 
candles,  I  found  two  new  gowns,  a  hat  which  Heda 
had  purchased  for  me  in  Prague, — and  which,  by  tho 
way,  would  be  highly  appreciated  upon  the  head  of  a 
monkey  in  a  circus, — several  volumes  of  English  litera- 
ture sent  me  by  Miss  O'Donnel  from  Italy,  and,  in  a 
white  silk  sachet  upon  which  Mimi  Zett  had  embroid- 
ered a  bird  of  paradise  in  tho  midst  of  a  snow-scene 
(a  symbol  of  my  melancholy  condition),  a  card,  upon 
which  was  written,  "A  visit  to  some  watering-place, 
by  the  way  of  Vienna  and  Paris."  I  uttered  a  shriek 
of  delight  and  threw  my  arms  around  my  uncle's  neck. 

The  three  young  girls  from  Komaritz  came  over  to 


88  "O  THOU,  Mr  AUSTRIA!" 

Zirkow  to  dine,  in  honour  of  the  occasion ;  we  drank 
one  another's  health  in  champagne,  and  in  the  after- 
noon we  had  coffee  in  the  woods,  which  was  very 
inconvenient  but  very  delightful.  Then  we  consulted 
the  cards  as  to  our  future,  and  Heda  lost  her  temper 
because  the  oracle  declared  that  she  would  marry  an 
apothecary. 

What  nonsense  it  was !  The  cards  prophesied  to  me 
that  I  should  marry  for  love ; — 1 1  As  if  I  should  think 
of  such  a  thing  1  But  I  was  not  in  the  least  vexed, 
although  I  knew  how  false  it  was. 

Towards  eight  o'clock  the  girls  drove  home,  and  I 
concluded  the  evening  by  taking  my  new  bonnet  to 
pieces  and  then  scribbling  here  at  my  writing-table.  I 
cannot  make  up  my  mind  to  go  to  bed.  I  am  fairly 
tingling  to  my  finger-tips  with  delightful  anticipations. 
To  think  of  seeing  Paris  once  more, — Paris,  where  I 
was  born,  the  very  centre  of  the  civilized  world !  Oh, 
it  is  too  charming ! 

Something  extraordinary  will  happen  during  this 
trip, — I  am  sure  of  it.  I  shall  meet  some  one  who  will 
liberate  me  from  my  solitude  and  set  mo  upon  the 
pedestal  for  which  I  long ;  an  English  peer,  perhaps, 
or  a  Russian  prince, — oh,  it  will  of  course  be  a  Rus- 
sian prince  who  spends  most  of  his  time  in  Paris.  I 
shall  not  mind  his  not  being  very  young.  Elderly  men 
are  more  easily  managed. 

(At  this  point  the  major  frowns.  "  I  should  not  have 
thought  it  of  her,  I  really  should  not  have  thought  it 
of  her.  Well,  we  shall  see  whether  she  is  in  earnest." 
And  he  goes  on  with  his  reading.) 


«O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  89 

Jane  10, . 

I  have  a  piece  of  news  to  put  down.  The  Frau  von 
Harfink  who  bought  Dobrotschau  a  while  ago — the 
estate  that  adjoins  Zirkow,  a  fine  property  with  a  grand 
castle  but  poor  soil — is  no  other  than  Lato  Treuren- 
berg's  mother-in-law.  She  called  upon  us  to-day. 
When  Krupitschka  brought  the  cards  of  the  Baroness 
Melanie  von  Harfink  and  her  daughter  Paula,  Aunt 
Rosa  denounced  the  visit  as  a  presumption  upon  the 
part  of  the  ladies.  She  had  been  engaged  all  day 
long  in  setting  the  house  "  to  rights,"  preparatory  to 
our  departure,  and  had  on  a  very  old  gown  in  which 
she  does  not  often  appear;  wherefore  she  would 
fain  have  denied  herself.  But  I  was  burning  with 
curiosity  to  see  Lato's  mother-in-law :  so  I  remarked, 
"Uncle  Paul  and  I  will  go  and  receive  the  ladies, 
while  you  dress." 

This  made  my  aunt  very  angry.  "  It  never  would 
occur  to  me  to  dress  for  these  wealthy  par  venues.  This 
gown  is  quite  good  enough  for  them."  And  she 
smoothed  the  faded  folds  of  her  skirt  so  that  a  neatly- 
darned  spot  was  distinctly  conspicuous.  The  ladies 
were  immediately  shown  in ;  they  were  extremely 
courteous  and  amiable,  but  they  found  no  favour  in 
my  aunt's  eyes. 

There  really  was  no  objection  to  make  to  Mamma 
von  Harfink,  who  is  still  a  very  handsome  woman, 
except  that  her  manner  was  rather  affected.  The 
daughter,  however,  was  open  to  criticism  of  various 
kinds,  and  subsequently  became  the  subject  of  a  seri- 
ous dispute  between  my  aunt  and  uncle.  My  aunt 

8» 


90  "0  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA /'• 

called  Fraulein  Paula  disagreeable,  absolutely  hideous, 
and  vulgar ;  whereupon  my  uncle,  slowly  shaking  his 
head,  rejoined, — 

"  Say  what  you  please,  she  may  not  be  agreeable,  but 
she  is  very  pretty." 

Upon  this  my  aunt  grew  angry,  and  called  Frau- 
lein Paula  a  "red-haired  kitchen-maid."  My  uncle 
shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  observed,  "  Nevertheless, 
there  have  been  kitchen-maids  who  were  not  ugly." 

Then  my  aunt  declared,  "  I  can  see  nothing  pretty 
about  such  fat  creatures ;  but,  according  to  her  moth- 
er's account,  you  are  not  alone  in  your  admiration. 
Madame  Harfink  had  hardly  been  here  five  minutes 

when  she  informed  me  that  Professor  X ,  of  Vienna, 

had  declared  that  her  daughter  reminded  him  of 
Titian's  penitent  Magdalen  in  the  Borghese  Gallery  in 
Rome,  and  she  asked  me  whether  I  was  not  struck 
with  the  resemblance." 

My  uncle  grinned — I  could  not  see  at  what — and 
said,  "  H'm  I  the  Magdalen,  perhaps ;  but  whether  peni- 
tent or  not "  and  he  pinched  my  cheek. 

The  dispute  continued  for  a  while  longer,  and  ended 
with  my  aunt's  emphatic  declaration  that  men  always 
had  the  worst  possible  taste  with  regard  to  young 
girls.  My  uncle  burst  into  a  laugh  at  this,  and  re- 
plied, "  True.  I  gave  proof  of  it  on  the  21st  of  May, 
1858."  It  was  his  marriage-day. 

Of  course  my  aunt  laughed,  and  the  quarrel  ended. 
The  subject  was  changed,  and  we  discussed  Lato  Treu- 
renberg's  marriage,  which  had  puzzled  us  all.  My  aunt 
declared  that  since  she  had  seen  the  family  Treuren- 


"O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  91 

berg's  choice  appeared  to  her  more  incomprehensible 
than  ever. 

My  uncle  shook  his  head  sagely,  and  observed,  "  If 
Selina  Treurenberg  at  all  resembles  her  sister,  it  ex- 
plains much  to  me,  especially  when  I  recall  the  poor 
fellow's  peculiarities.  It  makes  me  more  lenient  to- 
wards him,  and — I  pity  him  from  my  heart."  They 
evidently  did  not  wish  to  say  anything  more  upon  the 
subject  before  me. 

June  20. 

This  afternoon  we  start.  I  am  in  a  fever  of  antici- 
pation. How  delightful !  I  seem  to  have  come  to  the 
turning-point  of  my  existence.  Something  wonderful 
is  surely  going  to  happen. 

Meanwhile,  I  take  my  leave  of  my  little  book, — I 
shall  have  no  time  to  write  in  it  while  we  are  away. 

July  30. 

Here  we  are  back  again  in  the  old  nest !  Nothing 
either  wonderful  or  even  extraordinary  happened  upon 
the  journey;  on  the  contrary,  everything  was  quite 
commonplace.  I  did  not  meet  the  Eussian  prince,  but 
I  have  brought  home  with  me  a  conviction  of  the 
beauty  and  delights  of  the  world,  and  the  certainty 
that,  if  fate  would  only  grant  me  the  opportunity,  I 
could  play  a  most  brilliant  part  in  it.  But  my  destiny 
has  nothing  of  the  kind  to  offer. 

I  am  restless  and  discontented,  and  I  have  great 
trouble  in  concealing  my  mood  from  my  uncle  and 
aunt.  I  am  likewise  disgusted  with  my  ingratitude. 
I  know  that  the  expenses  of  our  trip  weighed  heavily 


92  "0  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!" 

upon  my  uncle.  Ho  has  bought  himself  no  new  horses, 
although  the  old  ones  are  lame  in  all  four  legs ;  and 
my  aunt  has  given  up  her  pilgrimage  to  Bayreuth,  that 
I  might  go  to  the  baths.  She  expected  so  much  for  me 
from  this  trip,  and  now 

Still,  prosaic  and  commonplace  as  it  all  was,  I  will 
put  it  down  here  conscientiously  in  detail.  Various 
pleasant  little  circumstances  may  recur  to  me  as  I 
write  which  have  escaped  me  in  my  general  discontent 
that  has  tinged  everything. 

Our  few  days  in  Vienna  were  the  pleasantest  part  of 
the  entire  trip,  little  as  I  liked  the  city  at  first. 

We  arrived  at  ten  in  the  evening,  rather  exhausted 
by  the  heat,  and  of  course  we  expected  to  see  Harry 
at  the  railroad-station,  my  uncle  having  advised  him 
of  our  arrival.  But  in  vain  did  we  peer  in  every 
direction,  or  rather  in  vain  did  Aunt  Rosamunda  thus 
peer  (for  I  did  nothing  of  the  kind) ;  there  was  no 
Harry  to  be  seen. 

While  my  aunt  loudly  expressed  her  wonder  at  hia 
non-appearance,  I  never  uttered  a  word,  but  was 
secretly  all  the  more  vexed  at  what  seemed  to  me 
Harry's  laziness  and  want  of  consideration.  Of  course, 
I  attributed  his  absence  to  the  fact  that  a  young  man 
who  passed  his  time  in  flying  from  one  fete  to  another 
in  the  world  (which  I  was  not  to  know)  could  hardly 
be  very  anxious  to  meet  a  couple  of  relatives  from  the 
country.  Perhaps  he  had  come  to  be  just  like  Heda, 
and  I  shrugged  my  shoulders  indifferently  at  the 
thought.  What  could  it  possibly  matter  to  me? 
Meanwhile,  my  aunt  had  given  our  luggage-tickets  to 


"O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  93 

a  porter  and  got  with  me  into  an  open  carriage,  where 
we  quietly  and  wearily  awaited  our  trunks. 

Around  us  the  lights  flickered  in  the  warm,  dim, 
night  air,  which  was  almost  as  close  as  an  in-dooi 
atmosphere,  and  smelled  most  unpleasantly  of  dust, 
dried  leaves,  and  all  sorts  of  exhalations.  On  every 
hand  crowded  houses  of  indescribable  clumsiness  and 
ugliness ;  I  was  depressed  by  the  mere  eight  of  them, 
and  suddenly  experienced  the  most  painful  sensation 
of  shrivelling  up.  The  deafening  noise  and  bustle  were 
in  harmony  with  the  houses :  I  never  had  heard  any- 
thing like  it.  Everybody  jostled  everybody  else,  all 
were  in  a  hurry,  and  no  one  paid  the  slightest  regard 
to  anybody.  It  seemed  as  if  they  were  one  and  all 
bound  for  some  great  entertainment  and  feared  to  be 
too  late. 

At  the  hotel  the  reason  for  Harry's  absence  was 
explained.  We  found  two  beautiful  bunches  of  roses 
in  our  rooms,  and  a  note,  as  follows : 

"  I  am  more  sorry  than  I  can  tell,  not  to  be  able  to 
welcome  you  at  the  station.  I  am,  unfortunately,  on 

duty  at  a  garden-party  at  the  Archduke  S 's.  .  .  . 

I  shall  report  myself  to  you,  however,  at  the  earliest 
opportunity. 

"HARRY." 

I  supped  with  a  relish,  and  slept  soundly. 

My  aunt  had  breakfasted  in  our  sitting-room  and 
was  reading  the  paper,  when  I  had  scarcely  begun  to 
dress.  I  was  just  about  to  brush  my  hair, — I  have  very 


94  "0  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!" 

long  hair,  and  it  is  quite  pretty,  light  brown  with  a 
dash  of  gold, — in  fact,  I  was  standing  before  the  mirror 
in  my  white  peignoir,  with  my  hair  hanging  soft  and 
curling  all  around  me,  very  well  pleased  with  my 
reflection  in  the  glass,  when  suddenly  I  heard  the 
jingling  of  spurs  and  sabre,  and  a  voice  which  was 
familiar  and  yet  unfamiliar.  I  trembled  from  head 
to  foot. 

"  Zdena,  hurry,  and  come !"  called  my  aunt.  "  Here 
is  a  visitor !" 

I  knew  well  enough  who  it  was,  but,  as  if  I  did  not 
know,  I  opened  the  door,  showed  myself  for  a  moment 
in  my  white  wrapper  and  long,  loose  hair,— only  for 
a  moment, — and  then  hastily  retreated. 

"  Come  just  as  you  are.  'Tis  only  Harry ;  it  is  not  as 
if  it  were  a  stranger.  Come !"  called  my  aunt. 

But  I  was  not  to  be  persuaded.  Not  for  worlds 
•would  I  have  had  Harry  suspect  that — that — well,  that 
I  was  in  any  great  hurry  to  see  him. 

I  dressed  my  hair  with  the  most  scrupulous  care. 
.Not  before  twenty  minutes  had  passed  did  I  go  into 
the  next  room. 

How  plainly  I  see  it  all  before  me  now, — the  room, 
half  drawing-room,  half  dressing-room ;  a  trunk  in 
one  corner,  in  another  an  old  piano,  the  key  of  which 
we  were  obliged  to  procure  from  the  kellner;  in  an 
arm-chair  a  bundle  of  shawls,  over  the  back  of  a  sofa 
our  travelling-wraps,  our  well-polished  boots  in  front 
of  the  porcelain  stove,  great  patches  of  misty  sunshine 
lying  everywhere,  the  breakfast-table  temptingly  spread 
near  the  window,  and  there,  opposite  my  aunt,  his  sabre 


"  O  THOU,  MY  A  USTRIA  t"  95 

between  his  knees,  tall,  slender,  very  brown,  very  hand- 
some, an  officer  of  hussars, — Harry. 

I  like  him,  and  am  a  little  afraid  of  him.  He  sud- 
denly springs  up  and  advances  a  step  or  two  towards 
me.  His  eyes — the  same  eyes  that  had  glanced  at  me 
as  I  appeared  in  my  wrapper — open  wide  in  amaze- 
ment ;  his  gaze  is  riveted  upon  my  face.  All  my  fear 
has  gone;  yes,  I  confess  it  to  this  paper, — I  am  pos- 
sessed by  an  exultant  consciousness  of  power.  He  is 
only  my  cousin,  'tis  true,  but  he  is  the  first  man  upon 
whom  I  have  been  able  to  prove  my  powers  of  con- 
quest. 

I  put  my  hands  in  his,  so  cordially  extended,  but 
when  he  stooped  as  if  to  kiss  me,  I  shook  my  head, 
laughing,  and  said,  "  I  am  too  old  for  that." 

He  yielded  without  a  word,  only  touching  my  hand 
respectfully  with  his  lips  and  then  releasing  me ;  where- 
upon I  went  directly  to  the  breakfast-table.  But,  as 
he  still  continued  to  gaze  at  me,  I  asked,  easily, — 

"  What  is  it,  Harry  ?    Is  my  hair  coming  down  ?" 

He  shook  his  head,  and  said,  in  some  confusion, 
"Not  at  all.  I  was  only  wondering  what  you  had 
done  with  all  your  magnificent  hair  I" 

I  made  no  reply,  but  applied  myself  to  my  breakfast. 

It  was  really  delightful,  our  short  stay  in  Vienna. 
Harry  was  with  us  all  the  while.  He  went  about  with 
us  from  morning  till  night ;  patiently  dragged  with  us 
to  shops,  picture-galleries,  and  cathedrals,  and  to  the 
dusty,  sunny  Prater,  where  the  vegetation  along  the 
drive  seemed  to  have  grown  shabby.  We  drove  together 
to  Schonbrunn,  the  huge,  dreamy,  imperial  summer 


96  "0  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!" 

residence,  and  wandered  about  the  leafy  avenues  there. 
We  fed  the  swans ;  we  fed  the  monkeys  and  the  bears, 
while  my  aunt  rested  near  by,  Baedeker  in  hand,  upon 
any  bench  she  could  find.  She  rested  a  great  deal,  and 
grew  more  tired  with  every  day  of  our  stay  in  Vienna, 
and  with  very  good  reason;  she  can  hardly  endure 
the  pavement  in  walking,  and  she  refuses,  from  fastid- 
iousness, to  take  advantage  of  the  tramwaj',  and,  from 
economy,  to  hire  a  carriage. 

The  sunset  has  kindled  flames  in  all  the  windows  of 
the  castle,  and  we  are  still  wandering  in  the  green 
avenues,  talking  of  all  sorts  of  things,  music,  and 
literature.  Harry's  taste  is  classic ;  mine  is  somewhat 
revolutionary.  I  talk  more  than  he ;  he  listens.  Some- 
times he  throws  in  a  word  in  the  midst  of  my  non- 
sense; at  other  times  he  laughs  heartily  at  my  para- 
doxes, and  then  again  he  suddenly  looks  askance  at 
me  and  says  nothing.  Then  I  become  aware  that  he 
understands  far  more  than  I  of  the  matter  in  hand, 
and  I  fall  silent. 

The  sun  has  set;  the  rosy  reflection  on  the  grass 
and  at  the  foot  of  the  old  trees  has  faded;  there  is 
only  a  pale,  gray  gleam  on  the  castle  windows.  All 
nature  seems  to  sigh  relieved.  A  cool  mist  rises 
from  the  basins  of  the  fountains,  like  the  caress  of  a 
water-nymph ;  the  roses,  petunias,  and  mignonette 
exhale  delicious  fragrance,  which  rises  as  incense  to 
heaven;  the  lisp  of  the  leaves  and  the  plash  of  the 
fountain  interpose  a  dreamy  veil  of  sound,  as  it  were, 
between  us  and  some  aggressive  military  music  in  the 
distance. 


"O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  97 

The  twilight  falls;  the  nurses  are  all  taking  their 
charges  home.  Here  and  there  on  the  benches  a  sol- 
dier and  a  nursemaid  are  sitting  together.  It  is  too 
dark  to  see  to  read  Baedeker  any  longer.  My  aunt 
calls  to  us :  "  Do  come,  children ;  the  carriage  has  been 
waiting  ever  so  long,  and  I  am  very  hungry." 

And  the  time  had  seemed  so  short  to  me.  My  aunt 
is  so  easily  fatigued,  and  her  aversion  to  tramways  is 
so  insurmountable,  that  she  stays  at  home  half  the 
time  in  the  hotel,  and  I  make  many  a  little  expedition 
with  Harry  alone.  Then  I  take  his  arm.  We  stroll 
through  the  old  part  of  the  city,  with  its  sculptured 
monuments,  its  beautiful  gray  palaces  standing  side 
by  side  with  the  commonest  lodging-houses;  about 
us  people  are  thronging  and  pushing;  we  are  in  no 
hurry ;  we  should  like  to  have  time  stand  still, — Harry 
and  I ;  we  walk  very  slowly.  I  am  so  content,  so 
filled  with  a  sense  of  protection,  when  I  am  with 
him  thus.  It  is  delightful  to  cling  to  him  in  the 
crowd. 

It  seems  to  me  that  I  should  like  to  spend  my  life 
in  slowly  wandering  thus  in  the  cool  of  the  evening 
through  the  streets,  where  the  lights  are  just  begin- 
ning to  be  lighted,  where  a  pair  of  large,  kindly  eyes 
rest  upon  my  face,  and  the  sound  of  distant  military 
music  is  in  my  ears. 

The  last  evening  before  our  departure  arrived.  We 
were  sitting  in  our  small  drawing-room,  and  Harry  and 
I  were  drinking  iced  coffee.  My  aunt  had  left  hers 
untouched ;  the  fever  of  travelling  was  upon  her ;  she 
wandered  from  one  room  to  another,  opening  trunks, 
E  9  9 


98  "O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!" 

drawers,  and  wardrobes,  and  casting  suspicious  glances 
under  the  piano  and  the  sofas,  sure  that  something 
would  be  left  behind. 

The  kellner  brought  in  two  cards, — Countess  Zriny 
and  Fraulein  Tschaky, — a  cousin  of  Uncle  Paul's,  with 
her  companion. 

We  had  called  upon  the  Countess  the  day  before, 
and  had  rejoiced  to  find  her  not  at  home.  My  aunt 
now  elevated  her  eyebrows,  and  murmured,  plaintively, 
« It  can't  be  helped !" 

Then  she  hurriedly  carried  two  bundles  of  shawls 
and  a  hand-bag  into  the  next  room,  and  the  ladies  were 
shown  in. 

Countess  Zriny  is  a  very  stout,  awkward  old  maid, 
with  the  figure  of  a  meal-sack  and  the  face  of  a  portly 
abbot.  Harry  maintains  that  she  has  holy  water  in- 
stead of  blood  in  her  veins,  and  that  she  has  for  ten 
years  lived  exclusively  upon  Eau  de  Lourdes  and  Count 
Mattel's  miraculous  pills.  It  is  odd  that  she  should 
have  grown  so  stout  upon  such  a  diet. 

There  is  nothing  to  say  of  Fraulein  Tschaky. 

Aunt  Rosamunda  received  the  ladies  with  a  majestic 
affability  peculiarly  her  own,  and  presented  me  as 
"  Our  child,— Fritz's  daughter !" 

The  Countess  gave  me  her  hand,  a  round,  fat  little 
hand  that  felt  as  if  her  Swedish  glove  were  stuffed 
with  wadding,  then  put  up  her  eyeglass  and  gazed  at 
me,  lifting  her  eyebrows  the  while. 

"All  her  father  I"  she  murmured, — "especially  her 
profile."  Then  she  dropped  her  eyeglass,  sighed,  "  Poor 
Fritz!  poor  Fritz!"  seated  herself  on  the  sofa  with 


"O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  99 

my  aunt,  and  began  to  whisper  to  her,  looking  steadily 
at  me  all  the  while. 

The  sensitive  irritability  of  my  nature  was  at  once 
aflame.  If  she  had  pitied  my  father  only  for  being 
snatched  away  so  early  in  his  fair  young  life,  for  being 
torn  so  suddenly  from  those  whom  he  loved !  But 
this  was  not  the  case.  She  pitied  him  solely  because 
he  had  married  my  mother.  Oh,  I  knew  it  perfectly 
well;  and  she  was  whispering  about  it  to  my  aunt 
before  me, — she  could  not  even  wait  until  I  should  be 
away.  I  could  hear  almost  every  word. 

My  heart  suddenly  grew  heavy, — so  heavy  with  the 
old  grief  that  I  would  fain  forget,  that  I  could  hardly 
bear  it.  But  even  in  the  midst  of  my  pain  I  observed 
that  Harry  was  aware  of  my  suffering  and  shared  it. 

Of  course  my  cousin  Zriny — for  she  is  my  cousin, 
after  all — was  otherwise  extremely  amiable  to  me. 
She  turned  from  her  mysterious  conversation  with 
Aunt  Rosamunda,  and  addressed  a  couple  of  questions 
to  me.  She  asked  whether  I  liked  country  life,  and 
when  I  replied,  curtly,  "  I  know  no  other,"  she  laughed 
good-humouredly,  just  as  some  contented  old  monk 
might  laugh, — a  laugh  that  seemed  to  shake  her  fat 
sides  and  double  chin, — as  she  said,  "  Elle  a  de  V esprit, 
la  petite;  elle  riest  pas  du  tout  banale" 

How  she  arrived  at  that  conclusion  from  my  brief 
reply,  I  am  unable  to  say. 

After  a  quarter  of  an  hour  she  rose,  took  both  my 
hands  in  hers  by  way  of  farewell,  put  her  head  on  one 
side,  sighed,  "  Poor  Fritz !"  and  then  kissed  me. 

When  the  door  had   closed  behind   her,  my  aunt 


100  "O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!" 

betook  herself  to  the  next  room  to  make  ready  for  a 
projected  evening  walk. 

I  was  left  alone  with  Harry.  As  I  could  not  restrain 
my  tears,  and  did  not  know  how  else  to  conceal  them, 
I  turned  my  back  to  him  and  pretended  to  arrange  my 
hair  at  the  pier-glass,  before  which  stood  a  vase  filled 
with  the  La  France  roses  that  he  had  brought  me  the 
day  before. 

It  was  a  silly  thing  to  do.  He  looked  over  my 
shoulder  and  saw  in  the  mirror  the  tears  on  my  cheeks, 
and  then — he  put  his  arm  around  my  waist  and  whis- 
pered, "You  poor  little  goose!  You  sensitive  little 
thing!  Why  should  you  grieve  because  a  kind- 
hearted,  weak-minded  old  woman  was  silly  ?" 

Then  I  could  not  help  sobbing  outright,  crying,  "Ah, 
it  is  always  the  same, — I  know  it !  I  am  not  like  the 
other  girls  in  your  world.  People  despise  me,  and  my 
poor  mother  too." 

"But  this  is  childish,"  he  said,  gravely, — "childish 
and  foolish.  No  one  despises  you.  And — don't  scratch 
my  eyes  out,  Zdena — it  is  not  your  heart,  merely,  that 
is  wounded  at  present,  but  your  vanity,  the  vanity  of 
an  inexperienced  little  girl  who  knows  nothing  of  the 
world  or  of  the  people  in  it.  If  you  had  knocked 
about  in  it  somewhat,  you  would  know  how  little  it 
signifies  if  people  in  general  wink  and  nod,  and  that 
the  only  thing  really  to  care  for  is,  to  be  understood 
and  loved  by  those  to  whom  we  cling  with  affection." 

He  said  this  more  gently  and  kindly  than  I  can 
write  it.  He  suddenly  seemed  very  far  above  me  in 
his  earnest  kindness  of  heart  and  his  sweet  reasonable- 


"0  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA  I"  101 

ness.  I  was  instantly  possessed  with  a  feeling  akin  to 
remorse  and  shame,  to  think  how  I  had  teased  him  and 
tyrannized  over  him  all  through  those  last  few  days. 
And  I  cannot  tell  how  it  happened,  but  he  clasped 
mo  close  in  his  arms  and  bent  down  and  kissed  me  on 
the  lips, — and  I  let  him  do  it !  Ah,  such  a  thrill  passed 
through  me !  And  I  felt  sheltered  and  cared  for  as  I 
had  not  done  since  my  mother's  clasping  arms  had 
been  about  me.  I  was  for  the  moment  above  all  petty 
annoyances, — borne  aloft  by  a  power  I  could  not  with- 
stand. 

It  lasted  but  a  moment,  for  we  were  startled  by  the 
silken  rustle  of  my  aunt's  gown,  and — did  he  release 
me? — did  I  leave  him?  I  do  not  know;  but  when 
Aunt  Eosamunda  appeared  I  was  adjusting  a  rose  in 

my  breast,  and  Harry  was — looking  for  his  sabre  1 

!.'  (When  the  major  reached  this  point,  he  stamped  on 
the  floor  with  delight. 

"  Aha,  Rosel,  which  of  us  was  right  ?"  he  exclaimed 
aloud.  He  would  have  liked  to  summon  his  wife  from 
where  he  could  see  her  walking  in  the  garden,  to  im- 
part to  her  his  glorious  discovery.  On  reflection,  how- 
ever, he  decided  not  to  do  so,  chiefly  because  there 
was  a  good  deal  of  manuscript  still  unread,  and  he  was 
in  a  hurry  to  continue  the  perusal  of  what  interested 
him  so  intensely.) 

1  avoided  being  alone  with  Harry  all  the  rest  of 

the  evening,  but  the  next  morning  at  the  railway-sta- 
tion, while  my  aunt  was  nervously  counting  over  the 
pieces  of  luggage  for  the  ninety-ninth  time,  I  could 
not  prevent  his  leaning  towards  me  and  saying,  "  Zdena, 

9* 


102  "O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!" 

we  were  so  unfortunately  interrupted  last  evening. 
You  have  not  yet  told  me — that " 

I  felt  myself  grow  scarlet.  "  Wait  for  a  while  1"  I 
murmured,  turning  my  head  away  from  him,  but  I 
think  that  perhaps — I  pressed  his  hand 

I  must  have  done  so,  for  happier  eyes  than  those 
which  looked  after  our  train  as  it  sped  away  I  have 
never  seen.  Ah,  how  silly  I  had  been  1  I  carried  with 
me  for  the  rest  of  the  journey  a  decided  regret. 

(The  major  frowned  darkly.  "  Why,  this  looks  as  if 
she  would  like  to  withdraw  her  promise!  But  let  me 
see, — there  really  has  no  promise  passed  between  them." 

He  glanced  hurriedly  over  the  following  leaves. 
"Descriptions  of  travel — compositions,"  he  muttered 
to  himself.  "Paris — variations  upon  Baedeker — the 
little  goose  begins  to  be  tiresome Ah,  here  is  some- 
thing about  her  parents'  grave — poor  thing  I  And 
here "  He  began  to  read  again.) 


A  few  hours  after  our  arrival  we  drove  to  the 

graveyard  at  Montmartre,  an  ugly,  gloomy  graveyard, 
bordering  directly  upon  a  business-street,  so  that  the 
noise  and  bustle  of  the  city  sound  deafeningly  where 
the  dead  are  reposing.  The  paths  are  as  straight  as 
if  drawn  by  a  ruler,  and  upon  the  graves  lie  wreaths 
of  straw  flowers  or  stiff  immortelles.  These  durable 
decorations  seem  to  me  heartless, — as  if  the  poor  dead 
were  to  be  provided  for  once  for  all,  since  it  might  be 
tiresome  to  visit  them  often. 

My  parents'  grave  lies  a  little  apart  from  the  broad 
centre  path,  under  a  knotty  old  juniper-tree. 


»O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  103 

I  heaped  it  with  flowers,  and  amid  the  fresh  blossoms 
I  laid  the  roses,  now  faded,  which  Hany  gave  me  yes- 
terday when  we  parted. 

I  was  enchanted  with  Paris.  My  aunt  was  delighted 
with  the  shops.  She  spent  all  her  time  in  them,  and 
thought  everything  very  reasonable.  At  the  end  of 
four  days  she  had  bought  so  many  reasonable  articles 
that  she  had  to  purchase  a  huge  trunk  in  which  to 
take  them  home,  and  she  had  scarcely  any  money 
left. 

She  was  convinced  that  she  must  have  made  some 
mistake  in  her  accounts,  and  she  worked  over  them 
half  through  an  entire  night,  but  with  no  consoling 
result. 

The  upshot  of  it  was  that  she  wanted  to  go  home 
immediately;  but  since  the  trip  had  been  undertaken 
chiefly  for  my  health  and  was  to  end  in  a  visit  to  some 
sea-side  resort,  she  wrote  to  my  uncle,  explaining  the 
state  of  affairs — that  is,  of  her  finances — and  asking 
for  a  subsidy. 

My  uncle  sent  the  subsidy,  but  requested  us  to  leave 
Paris  as  soon  as  possible^  and  to  choose  a  modest  sea- 
side resort. 

The  next  day  we  departed  from  Babylon. 

After  inquiring  everywhere,  and  studying  the  guide- 
book attentively,  my  aunt  finally  resolved  to  go  to  St. 
Yalery. 

The  evening  was  cold  and  windy  when  we  reached 
the  little  town  and  drew  up  in  the  omnibus  before  the 
Hotel  de  la  Plage. 


104  "O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA  I" 

The  season  had  not  begun,  and  the  hotel  was  not 
actually  open,  but  it  received  us. 

As  no  rooms  were  taken,  all  were  placed  at  our 
disposal,  and  we  chose  three  in  the  first  story,  one  for 
my  aunt,  one  for  me,  and  one  for  our  trunks. 

The  furniture,  of  crazy  old  mahogany,  had  evidently 
been  bought  of  some  dealer  in  second-band  furniture 
in  Eouen,  but  the  beds  were  extremely  good,  and  the 
bed-linen,  although  "  coarse  as  sacking,"  as  Uncle  Paul 
would  have  expressed  it,  was  perfectly  clean  and  white. 

From  our  windows  we  looked  out  upon  the  sea  and 
upon  the  little  wooden  hut  where  the  safety-boat  was 
kept,  and  also  upon  the  little  town  park,  about  a  hun- 
dred square  yards  in  extent ;  upon  the  Casino,  quite  an 
imposing  structure  on  the  shore ;  upon  the  red  pennons 
which,  designating  the  bathing-place,  made  a  brilliant 
show  in  the  midst  of  the  prevailing  gray,  and  upon  a 
host  of  whitewashed  bath-houses  waiting  for  the  guests 
who  had  not  yet  arrived. 

How  indeed  could  they  arrive  ?  One  had  need  to 
have  come  from  Bohemia,  not  to  go  directly  home,  in 
such  cold,  damp  weather  as  we  had ;  but  we  wanted  to 
get  value  from  our  expensive  trip. 

The  Casino  was  no  more  open  than  the  hotel, — it  was 
even  in  a  decided  neglige,  but  it  was  busily  dressing. 
A  swarm  of  painters  and  upholsterers  were  decorating 
it.  The  upholsterers  hung  the  inside  with  crimson, 
the  painters  coloured  the  outside  red  and  white. 

The  proprietor,  a  broad-shouldered  young  man 
answering  to  the  high-sounding  name  of  Raoul  Don- 
val,  daily  superintended  the  work  of  the — artists. 


«'O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  105 

He  always  wore  a  white  cap  with  a  broad  black  visor, 
and  a  stick  in  the  pocket  of  his  short  jacket,  and 
plum-coloured  knickerbockers;  and  I  think  he  con- 
sidered himself  very  elegant. 

They  were  draping  and  beautifying  and  painting  our 
hotel  too.  Everything  was  being  painted  instead  of 
scrubbed, — the  stairs,  the  doors,  the  floors ;  every- 
where the  dirt  was  hidden  beneath  the  same  dull-red 
colour.  Aunt  Eosa  declared  that  they  seemed  to  her 
to  be  daubing  the  entire  house  with  blood.  Just  at 
this  time  she  was  wont  to  make  most  ghastly  com- 
parisons, because,  for  lack  of  other  literature,  she  was 
reading  an  historical  romance  in  the  Petit  Journal. 

She  was  in  a  far  more  melancholy  mood  than  I  at 
St.  Yalery.  Since  it  had  to  be,  I  made  up  my  mind 
to  it,  consoling  myself  with  the  reflection  that  I  was 
just  nineteen,  and  that  there  was  plenty  of  time  for 
fate,  if  so  minded,  to  shape  my  destiny  brilliantly. 
Unfortunately,  my  aunt  had  not  this  consolation, — but, 
instead,  the  depressing  consciousness  of  having  given 
up  Bayreuth.  It  was  hard.  I  was  very  sorry  for  her, 
and  did  all  that  I  could  to  amuse  her. 

I  could  always  find  something  to  laugh  at  in  our 
visits  to  the  empty  Casino  and  in  our  walks  through 
the  town,  but  instead  of  cheering  her  my  merriment 
distressed  her.  She  had  seen  in  the  French  journal 
which  she  studied  faithfully  every  day  an  account  of 
a  sensitive  trombone-player  at  the  famous  yearly  fes- 
tival at  Neuilly  who  had  broken  his  instrument  over 
the  head  of  an  arrogant  Englishman  who  had  allowed 
himself  to  make  merry  over  some  detail  of  the  festival. 


106  "O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!" 

Therefore  I  could  scarcely  smile  in  the  street  without 
having  my  aunt  twitch  my  sleeve  and  say, — 

"  For  heaven's  sake  don't  laugh  at  these  French- 
men ! — remember  that  trombone  at  Neuilly." 

During  the  first  fortnight  I  had  the  whole  shore, 
with  the  bath-houses  and  bathing-men,  entirely  to  my- 
self. It  was  ghastly!  The  icy  temperature  of  the 
water  seemed  to  bite  into  my  flesh,  my  teeth  chat- 
tered, and  the  bather  who  held  me  by  both  my  hands 
was  as  blue  as  his  dress.  Our  mutual  isolation  had 
the  effect  of  establishing  a  friendship  between  the 
bather  and  myself.  Ho  .had  formerly  been  a  sailor, 
and  had  but  lately  returned  from  Tonquin  ;  he  tokl  me 
much  that  was  interesting  about  the  war  and  the 
cholera.  He  was  a  good-looking  fellow,  with  a  fair 
complexion  and  a  tanned  face. 

After  my  bath  I  ran  about  on  the  shore  until  I  got 
warm,  and  then  we  breakfasted.  My  aunt  did  not 
bathe.  She  counted  the  days  like  a  prisoner. 

When  the  weather  permitted,  we  made  excursions 
into  the  surrounding  country  in  a  little  wagon  painted 
yellow,  drawn  by  a  shaggy  donkey,  which  I  drove  my- 
self. The  donkey's  name  was  Jeanne  d'Arc, — which 
horrified  my  aunt, — and  she  had  a  young  one  six 
months  old  that  ran  after  us  as  we  drove  along. 

For  more  than  two  weeks  we  were  the  sole  inmates 
of  the  Hotel  de  la  Plage.  The  manager  of  the  estab- 
lishment— who  was  likewise  the  head  of  the  kitchen — 
drove  to  the  station  every  day  to  capture  strangers, 
but  never  brought  any  back. 

I  see  him  now, — short  and  enormously  broad,  with  a 


"O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  107 

triple  or  quadruple  chin,  sitting  on  the  box  beside  the 
coachman,  his  hands  on  his  thighs.  He  always  wore 
sky-blue  trousers,  and  a  short  coat  buckled  about  him 
•with  a  broad  patent-leather  belt.  The  chambermaid, 
who  revered  him,  informed  me  that  it  was  the  dress 
of  an  English  courier. 

One  day  he  brought  back  to  the  host,  who  daily 
awaited  the  guests,  two  live  passengers,: — an  old  woman 
and  a  young  man. 

The  old  woman  was  very  poor,  and  took  a  garret 
room.  She  must  have  been  beautiful  formerly,  and 
she  looked  very  distinguished.  She  positively  refused 
to  write  her  name  in  the  strangers'  book.  By  chance 
we  learned  afterwards  that  she  was  a  Comtesse  d'lvry, 
from  Versailles,  who  had  had  great  misfortunes.  She 
had  a  passion  for  sunsets ;  every  afternoon  she  had 
an  arm-chair  carried  out  on  the  shore,  and  sat  there, 
wrapped  in  a  thick  black  cloak,  with  her  feet  on  a 
hot- water  bottle,  to  admire  the  majestic  spectacle. 
"When  it  rained,  she  still  persisted  in  going,  and  sat 
beneath  a  large  ragged  umbrella.  Upon  her  return 
she  usually  sighed  and  told  the  host  that  the  sunsets 
here  were  not  nearly  so  fine  as  at  Trouville, — appear- 
ing to  think  that  this  was  his  fault. 

At  last  the  weather  brightened  and  it  grew  warm ; 
the  sun  chased  awaj  the  clouds,  and  allured  a  crowd 
of  people  to  the  lonely  shore.  And  such  people  1  I 
shudder  to  think  of  them. 

We  could  endure  the  solitude,  but  such  society  was 
unendurable. 

The  next  day  I  took  my  last  bath. 


108  "  O  THOU,  MY  A  USTRIA  I" 

On  our  return  journey,  at  Cologne,  an  odd  thing 
happened. 

It  was  early,  and  I  was  sleepy.  I  was  waiting  for 
breakfast  in  melancholy  mood,  and  was  contemplating 
a  huge  pile  of  elegant  hand-luggage  which  a  servant 
in  a  very  correct  dark  suit  was  superintending,  when 
two  ladies,  followed  by  a  maid,  made  their  appearance, 
one  fair,  the  other  dark,  from  the  dressing-room,  which 
had  been  locked  in  our  faces.  In  honour  of  these  two 
princesses  we  had  been  obliged  to  remain  unwashed. 
Ah,  how  fresh  and  neat  and  pretty  they  both  looked ! 
The  dark  one  was  by  far  the  handsomer  of  the  two, 
but  she  looked  gloomy  and  discontented,  spoke  never 
a  word,  and  after  a  hurried  breakfast  became  absorbed 
in  a  newspaper.  The  fair  one,  on  the  contrary,  a 
striking  creature,  with  a  very  large  hat  and  a  profu- 
sion of  passementerie  on  her  travelling-cloak,  talked  a 
great  deal  and  very  loudly  to  a  short,  fat  woman  who 
was  going  with  her  little  son  to  Frankfort,  and  who 
addressed  the  blonde  as  "  Frau  Countess." 

The  name  of  the  short  woman  was  Frau  Kampe, 
and  the  name  of  the  Countess,  which  I  shortly  learned, 
shall  be  told  in  due  time.  The  Countess  complained 
of  the  fatigue  of  travelling ;  Frau  Kampe,  in  a  sympa- 
thetic tone,  declared  that  it  was  almost  impossible  to 
sleep  in  the  railway-carriages  at  this  time  of  year, 
they  were  so  overcrowded.  But  the  Countess  rejoined 
with  a  laugh, — 

"  We  had  as  much  room  as  we  wanted  all  the  way ; 
my  husband  secures  that  by  his  fees.  He  is  much  too 
lavish,  as  I  often  tell  him.  Since  I  have  been  travel 


"O  THOV,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  109 

ling  with  him  we  have  always  had  two  railway-car- 
riages, one  for  me  and  my  maid,  and  the  other  for 
him  and  his  cigars.  It  has  been  delightful." 

"Even  upon  your  wedding  tour?"  asked  her  hand- 
some, dark  companion,  looking  up  from  her  reading. 

"Ha,  ha,  ha!  Yes,  even  upon  our  wedding  tour," 
said  the  other.  "  We  were  a  very  prosaic  couple,  en- 
tirely independent  of  each  other, — quite  an  aristo- 
cratic match  !"  And  she  laughed  again  with  much 
self-satisfaction. 

"  Where  is  the  Herr  Count  ?"  asked  Frau  Kampe. 
"  I  should  like  to  make  his  acquaintance." 

"  Oh,  he  is  not  often  to  be  seen ;  he  is  smoking  on 
the  platform  somewhere.  I  scarcely  ever  meet  him ; 
he  never  appears  before  the  third  bell  has  rung.  A 
very  aristocratic  marriage,  you  see,  Frau  Kampe, — 
such  a  one  as  you  read  of." 

The  Countess's  beautiful  companion  frowned,  and 
the  little  Kampe  boy  grinned  from  ear  to  ear, — I  could 
not  tell  whether  it  was  at  the  aristocratic  marriage  or 
at  the  successful  solution  of  an  arithmetical  problem 
which  he  had  just  worked  out  on  the  paper  cover  of 
one  of  Walter  Scott's  novels. 

I  must  confess  that  I  was  curious  to  see  the  young 
husband  who  even  upon  his  marriage  journey  had  pre- 
ferred the  society  of  his  cigars  to  that  of  his  bride. 

My  aunt  had  missed  the  interesting  conversation 
between  Frau  Kampe  and  her  young  patroness;  she 
had  rushed  out  to  see  the  cathedral  in  the  morning 
mist.  I  had  manifested  so  little  desire  to  join  her  in 
this  artistic  but  uncomfortable  enterprise  that  she  had 

10 


110  "O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!" 

dispensed  with  my  society.  She  now  came  back  glow- 
ing with  enthusiasm,  and  filled  to  overflowing  with  all 
sorts  of  information  as  to  Gothic  architecture. 

Scarcely  had  she  seated  herself  to  drink  the  coffee 
which  I  poured  out  for  her,  when  a  tall  young  man, 
slightly  stooping  in  his  gait,  and  with  a  very  attractive, 

delicately-chiselled  face,  entered.  Was  he  not ? 

Well,  whoever  he  was,  he  was  the  husband  of  the 
aristocratic  marriage. 

He  exchanged  a  few  words  with  the  blonde  Count- 
ess, and  was  about  to  leave  the  room,  when  his  glanc« 
fell  upon  my  aunt. 

"Baroness,  you  here! — what  a  delight!"  he  ex- 
claimed, approaching  her  hastily. 

"Lato!"  she  almost  screamed.  She  always  talks  a 
little  loud  away  from  home,  which  annoys  me. 

It  was,  in  fact,  our  old  friend  Lato  Treurenberg. 
Before  she  had  been  with  him  two  minutes  my  aunt 
had  forgotten  all  her  prejudice  against  him  since  his 
marriage, — and,  what  was  more,  had  evidently  for- 
gotten the  marriage  itself,  for  she  whispered,  leaning 
towards  him  with  a  sly  twinkle  of  her  eye  and  a  nod 
in  the  direction  of  the  ladies, — 

"  What  noble  acquaintances  you  have  made ! — from 
Frankfort,  or  Hamburg  ?" 

My  heart  was  in  my  mouth.  No  one  except  Aunt 
Bosamunda  could  have  made  such  a  blunder. 

The  words  had  hardly  escaped  her  lips  when  she 
became  aware  of  her  mistake,  and  she  was  covered 
with  confusion.  Lato  flushed  scarlet.  At  that  mo- 
ment the  departure  of  our  train  was  announced,  and 


«O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA  I"  111 

Lato  took  a  hurried  leave  of  us.  I  saw  him  outside 
putting  the  ladies  into  a  carriage,  after  which  ho  him- 
self got  into  another. 

"We  travelled  second-class,  and  therefore  had  the 
pleasure  of  sharing  a  compartment  with  the  man- 
servant and  maid  of  the  Countess  Lato  Treurenberg. 

My  aunt  took  it  all  philosophically,  while  I,  I  con- 
fess, had  much  ado  to  conceal  my  ungrateful  and 
mean  irritation. 

I  succeeded,  however  ;  I  do  not  think  my  aunt  even 
guessed  at  my  state  of  mind.  She  went  to  sleep ;  per- 
haps she  dreamed  of  Cologne  Cathedral.  I — ah,  I  no 
longer  .dreamed ;  I  had  long  since  awakened  from  my 
dreams,  and  had  rubbed  my  eyes  and  destroyed  all  my 
fine  castles  in  the  air. 

The  trip  from  which  I  had  promised  myself  so  much 
was  over,  and  what  had  been  effected  ?  Nothing,  save 
a  more  distinct  appreciation  of  our  straitened  circum- 
stances and  an  increase  of  my  old  gnawing  discon- 
tent. 

I  recalled  the  delightful  beginning  of  our  trip,  the 
long,  dreamy  summer  days  in  Vienna,  the  evening  at 
Schonbrunn.  Again  I  saw  about  me  the  fragrant  twi- 
light, and  heard,  through  the  plash  of  fountains  and 
the  whispering  of  the  linden  leaves,  the  sound  of  distant 
military  music.  I  saw  Harry — good  heavens!  how 
plainly  I  saw  him,  with  his  handsome  mouth,  his  large, 
serious  eyes!  How  he  used  to  look  at  me!  And  I 
recalled  how  beautiful  the  world  had  seemed  to  me 
then,  so  beautiful  that  I  thought  I  could  desire  nothing 
better  than  to  wander  thus  through  life,  leaning  upon 


112  "O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!" 

his  arm  in  the  odorous  evening  air,  with  the  echo  of 
distant  military  music  in  my  ear. 

Then  ambition  rose  up  before  me  and  swept  away 
all  these  lovely  visions,  showing  me  another  picture, — 
Harry,  borne  down  by  cares,  in  narrow  circumstances, 
his  features  sharpened  by  anxiety,  with  a  pale,  patient 
face,  jesting  bitterly,  his  uniform  shabby,  though  care- 
fully brushed.  Ah,  and  should  I  not  love  him  ten 
times  more  then  than  nowl  he  would  always  be  the 
same  noble,  chivalric 

But  I  could  not  accept  such  a  sacrifice  from  him.  I 
could  not ;  it  would  be  unprincipled.  Specious  phrases ! 
What  has  principle  to  do  with  it  ?  I  do  not  choose  to 
be  poor — no,  I  will  not  be  poor,  and  therefore  I  am 
glad  that  we  were  interrupted  at  the  right  moment  in 
Vienna.  He  cannot  possibly  imagine — ah,  if  he  had 
imagined  anything  he  would  have  written  to  me,  and 
we  have  not  had  a  line  from  him  since  we  left  him. 
He  would  have  regretted  it  quite  as  much  as  I,  if 

It  never  would  occur  to  him  to  resign  all  his  grand- 
father's wealth  for  the  sake  of  my  golden  hair.  Young 
gentlemen  are  not  given  to  such  romantic  folly  nowa- 
days; though,  to  be  sure,  he  is  not  like  the  rest  of 
them. 

The  result  of  all  my  reflections  was  an  intense  hatred 
for  my  grandfather,  who  tyrannized  over  me  thus  in- 
stead of  allowing  affairs  to  take  their  natural,  delightful 
course ;  and  another  hatred,  somewhat  less  intense,  for 
the  brewery,  which  had  absorbed  half  of  Uncle  Paul's 
property, — that  is,  much  more  than  would  have  been 
necessary  to  assure  me  a  happy  future.  When  I  saw 


"  O  THOU,  MY  A  VSTRIA  1"  113 

from  the  railway  the  brew-house  chimney  above  the 
tops  of  the  old  lindens,  I  shook  my  fist  at  it. 

My  uncle  was  waiting  for  us  at  the  station.  He 
was  so  frankly  rejoiced  to  have  us  back  again  that  it 
cheered  my  heart.  His  eyes  sparkled  as  he  came  to 
me  after  greeting  my  aunt.  He  gazed  at  me  very 
earnestly,  as  if  he  expected  to  perceive  some  great 
and  pleasant  change  in  me,  and  then,  putting  his  finger 
under  my  chin,  turned  my  face  from  side  to  side. 
Suddenly  he  released  me. 

"You  are  even  paler  than  you  were  before!"  he 
exclaimed,  turning  away.  He  had  expected  the  sea- 
bathing to  work  miracles. 

"  Do  I  not  please  you  as  I  am,  uncle  dear  ?"  I  asked, 
putting  my  hand  upon  his  arm.  Then  he  kissed  me; 
but  I  could  see  plainly  that  his  pleasure  was  dashed. 

Now  we  have  been  at  home  four  days,  and  I  am 
writing  my  memoirs,  because  I  am  tired  of  having 
nothing  to  do.  It  does  not  rain  to-day;  the  sun  is 
burning  hot, — ah,  how  it  parches  the  August  grass! 
The  harvest  was  poor,  the  rye-straw  is  short,  and  the 
grains  of  wheat  are  small.  And  everything  was  so 
promising  in  May !  My  uncle  spends  a  great  deal  of 
time  over  his  accounts. 

August  8. 

Something  quite  extraordinary  has  happened.  We 
have  a  visitor,  a  cousin  of  Aunt  Eosamunda's, — Baron 
Roderich  Wenkendorf.  He  is  a  very  amiable  old 
gentleman,  about  forty-five  years  old.  He  interests 
himself  in  everything  that  interests  me, — even  in  Car- 
h  10* 


114  "O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!" 

lyle's  'French  Eevolution,'  only  he  cannot  bear  it. 
Moreover,  he  is  a  "Wagnerite;  that  is  his  only  dis- 
agreeable characteristic.  Every  day  he  plays  duets 
with  Aunt  Rosamunda  from  the  '  Gotterdammerung,' 
which  makes  Uncle  Paul  and  Mori  nervous.  Besides, 
he  paints,  of  course  only  for  pleasure,  but  very  ambi- 
tiously. Last  year  he  exhibited  one  of  his  pictures  in 
Vienna — Napoleon  at  St.  Helena — no,  Charles  the  Fifth 
in  the  cloister.  I  remember,  he  cannot  endure  the 
Corsican  upstart.  He  declares  that  Napoleon  had 
frightful  manners.  We  had  a  dispute  about  it.  We 
often  quarrel;  but  he  entertains  me,  he  pleases  me, 
and  so,  perhaps 

August  10. 

It  might  be  worth  while  to  take  it  into  considera- 
tion. For  my  sake  he  would  take  up  his  abode  in 
Bohemia.  I  do  not  dislike  him,  and  my  aunt  says 
that  marry  whom  you  will  you  can  never  get  used  to 
him  until  after  marriage.  Harry  and  I  should  always 
be  just  the  same  to  each  other ;  he  would  always  be 
welcome  as  a  brother  in  our  home,  of  course.  I  can- 
not really  see  why  people  must  marry  because  they 
love  each  other. 


«O  THOU,  MF  AUSTRIA!"  115 

CHAPTEB    III. 

AN   ARRIVAL. 

WHEN  the  major  reached  this  point  in  his  niece's 
memoirs,  he  rubbed  his  forehead  thoughtfully.  "  H'm !" 
he  murmured  ;  "  why  must  people  marry  because  they 
love  each  other  ?  By  Jove  1  On  the  whole,  it  is  well 
that  I  now  have  some  idea  of  what  is  going  on  in  that 
insane  little  head."  After  this  wise  the  major  quieted 
his  scruples  as  to  the  unpardonable  indiscretion  he  had 
committed. 

The  reading  of  Zdena's  extraordinary  production 
had  so  absorbed  his  attention  that  he  had  failed  to 
hear  the  approach  of  some  heavy  vehicle  which  had 
drawn  up  before  the  castle,  or  the  rhythmic  beat  of 
the  hoofs  of  two  riding-horses.  Now  he  was  suddenly 
startled  by  a  firm  step  to  the  accompaniment  of  a  low 
jingling  sound  in  the  corridor  outside  his  room-door, 
at  which  there  came  a  knock. 

"  Come  in !"  he  called  out. 

A  young  officer  of  hussars  in  a  blue  undress  uniform 
entered. 

"  Harry !  is  it  you  ?"  the  major  exclaimed,  cordially. 
"  Let  me  have  a  look  at  you !  What  has  put  it  into 
your  head  to  drop  down  upon  us  so  unexpectedly,  like 
the  deus  ex  machind  in  the  fifth  act  of  a  melodrama?" 

The  young  fellow  blushed  slightly.  "I  wanted  to 
surprise  you,"  he  said,  laughing,  in  some  confusion. 


116  "0  THOU,  MF  AUSTRIA!" 

"And  you  will  stay  a  while  with  us?  How  long  is 
your  leave  ?" 

"  Six  weeks." 

"  That's  right.  And  you're  glad  to  be  at  home  once 
more?"  said  the  major,  smiling  broadly,  and  rubbing 
his  hands. 

He  seemed  to  his  nephew  to  be  rather  distrait,  which 
he  certainly  was,  for  all  the  while  he  was  thinking  of 
matters  of  which  no  mention  was  made. 

"  My  uncle  has  either  been  taking  a  glass  too  much 
or  he  has  drawn  the  first  prize  in  a  lottery,"  Harry 
thought  to  himself  as  he  said,  aloud,  "  Hedwig  has  just 
come  over,  and  Aunt  Melanie." 

"Ah,  the  Zriny:  has  she  quartered  herself  upon 
you  ?"  the  major  asked,  with  something  of  a  drawl. 

"  I  escorted  her  here  from  Vienna.  Aunt  Eosamunda 
deputed  me  to  inform  you  of  our  relative's  arrival,  and 
to  beg  you  to  come  immediately  to  the  drawing-room." 

"  H'm,  h'm  1  —  I'll  go,  I'll  go,"  murmured  the  major, 
and  he  left  the  room  apparently  not  very  well  pleased. 
In  the  corridor  he  suddenly  turned  to  his  nephew,  who 
was  following  at  his  heels.  "Have  you  seen  Zdena 
yet  ?"  be  asked,  with  a  merry  twinkle  of  his  eye. 


"  Well,  go  find  her." 

"  Where  shall  I  look  for  her?" 

"  In  the  garden,  in  the  honeysuckle  arbour.  She  is 
posing  for  her  elderly  adorer  that  he  may  paint  her 
as  Zephyr,  or  Flora,  or  something  of  the  kind." 

"Her  elderly  adorer?  Who  is  he?"  Harry  asked, 
with  a  frown,  his  voice  sounding  hard  and  sharp. 


"0  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  117 

"  A  cousin  of  my  wife's, — Baron  "Wenkendorf  is  his 
name, — an  enormously  rich  old  bachelor,  and  head  over 
ears  in  love  with  our  girl.  He  culls  himself  a  painter, 
in  spite  of  his  wealth,  and  he  has  induced  the  child  to 
stand  for  some  picture  for  him.  He  makes  love  to  her, 
I  suppose,  while  she  poses." 

"  And  she — what  has  she  to  say  to  his  homage  ?" 
asked  Harry,  feeling  as  if  some  one  were  choking  him. 

"Oh,  she's  tolerably  condescending.  She  does  not 
object  to  being  made  love  to  a  little.  He  is  an  agree- 
able man  in  spite  of  his  forty-six  years,  and — it  certainly 
would  be  an  excellent  match." 

As  the  major  finished  his  sentence  with  an  expression 
of  countenance  which  Harry  could  not  understand,  the 
paths  of  the  two  men  separated.  Harry  hurried  down 
into  the  garden ;  the  major  walked  along  the  corridor 
to  the  drawing-room  door. 

"H'm!  I  have  warmed  him  up,"  the  major  said  to 
himself;  "'twill  do  no  harm  if  they  quarrel  a  little, 
those  two  children :  it  will  bring  the  little  goose  to  her 
senses  all  the  sooner.  There  is  only  one  healthy  solu- 
tion for  the  entire  problem.  You 1"  he  shook  his 

forefinger  at  the  empty  air.  "  Why  must  people  marry 
because  they  love  each  other  ?  Only  wait,  you  ultra- 
sensible  little  goose ;  I  will  remind  you  of  that  one  of 
these  days." 


118  "O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA r 

CHAPTEK    IV. 

A   QUARREL. 

MEANWHILE,  Harry  has  rushed  out  into  the  garden. 
He  is  very  restless,  very  warm,  very  much  agitated. 
It  never  occurs  to  him  that  his  uncle  has  been  chaffing 
him  a  little;  he  cannot  suspect  that  the  major  has  any 
knowledge  of  his  sentiments. 

"  She  cannot  be  so  worthless !"  he  consoles  himself 
by  reflecting,  while  his  eyes  search  for  her  in  the 
distance. 

With  this  thought  filling  his  mind,  the  young  officer 
hurries  on.  He  does  not  find  her  at  first ;  she  is  not 
in  the  honeysuckle  arbour. 

The  sultriness  of  the  August  afternoon  weighs  upon 
the  dusty  vegetation  of  the  late  summer.  The  leaves 
of  the  trees  and  shrubs  droop  wearily;  the  varied 
luxuriance  of  bloom  is  past ;  the  first  crop  of  roses  has 
faded,  the  next  has  not  yet  arrived  at  maturity.  Only 
a  few  red  verbenas  and  zinnias  gleam  forth  from  the 
dull  green  monotony. 

At  a  turn  of  the  path  Harry  suddenly  starts,  and 
pauses, — he  has  found  what  he  is  looking  for. 

Directly  in  the  centre  of  the  hawthorn-bordered 
garden-path  there  is  an  easel  weighted  with  an  enor- 
mous canvas,  at  which,  working  away  diligently,  stands 
a  gentleman,  of  whom  Harry  can  see  nothing  but  a 
slightly  round-shouldered  back,  the  fluttering  ribbons 


«O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA /•'  119 

of  a  Scotch  cap  set  on  the  back  of  a  head  covered 
with  short  gray  hair,  and  a  gigantic  palette  projecting 
beyond  the  left  elbow ;  while  at  some  distance  from  the 
easel,  clearly  defined  against  the  green  background, 
stands  a  tall,  graceful,  maidenly  figure  draped  in  a 
loose,  fantastic  robe,  her  arms  full  of  wild  poppies,  a 
large  hat  wreathed  with  vine-leaves  on  her  small  head, 
her  golden-brown  hair  loose  upon  her  shoulders, — 
Zdena !  Her  eyes  meet  Harry's :  she  flushes  crimson, — 
the  poppies  slip  from  her  arms  and  fall  to  the  ground. 

"You  here!"  she  murmurs,  confusedly,  staring  at 
him.  She  can  find  no  more  kindly  words  of  welcome, 
and  her  face  expresses  terror  rather  than  joyful  sur- 
prise, as  a  far  less  sharp-sighted  lover  than  Harry 
Leskjewitsch  could  not  fail  to  observe. 

He  makes  no  reply  to  her  words,  but  says,  bluntly, 
pointing  to  the  artist  at  the  easel,  "  Be  kind  enough  to 
introduce  me." 

With  a  choking  sensation  in  her  throat,  and  trem- 
bling lips,  Zdena  stammers  the  names  of  her  two 
adorers,  the  old  one  and  the  young  one.  The  gentle- 
men bow, — Harry  with  angry  formality,  Baron  Wen- 
kendorf  with  formal  amiability. 

"Aunt  Rosa  tells  me  to  ask  you  to  come  to  the 
drawing-room,"  Harry  says,  dryly. 

"  Have  any  guests  arrived  ?"  asks  Zdena. 

"  Only  my  sister  and  Aunt  Zriny." 

"Oh,  then  I  must  dress  myself  immediately!"  she 
exclaims,  and  before  Harry  is  aware  of  it  she  has 
slipped  past  him  and  into  the  house. 

Baron  "Wenkendorf  pushes  his  Scotch  cap  a  little 


120  "O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!" 

farther  back  from  his  forehead,  which  gives  his  face 
a  particularly  amazed  expression,  and  gazes  with  the 
same  condescending  benevolence,  first  at  the  vanish- 
ing maidenly  figure,  and  then  at  the  picture  on  the 
easel ;  after  which  he  begins  to  put  up  his  painting- 
materials.  Harry  assists  him  to  do  so,  but  leaves 
the  making  of  polite  remarks  entirely  to  the  "  elderly 
gentleman."  He  is  not  in  the  mood  for  anything  of 
the  kind.  He  sees  everything  at  present  as  through 
dark,  crimson  glass. 

Although  Zdena's  distress  arises  from  a  very  dif- 
ferent cause  from  her  cousin's,  it  is  none  the  less 
serious. 

"  Oh,  heavens  I"  she  thinks  to  herself,  as  she  hurries 
to  her  room  to  arrange  her  dishevelled  hair,  "  why 
must  he  come  before  I  have  an  answer  ready?  Ho 
surely  will  not  insist  upon  an  immediate  decision !  It 
would  be  terrible!  Anything  but  a  forced  decision; 
that  is  the  worst  thing  in  the  world." 

Such,  however,  does  not  seem  to  be  the  opinion  of 
her  hot-blooded  cousin.  When,  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
afterwai-ds,  she  goes  out  into  the  corridor  and  towards 
the  drawing-room  door,  she  observes  a  dark  figure 
standing  in  the  embrasure  of  a  window.  The  figure 
turns  towards  her,  then  approaches  her. 

"Harry! — ah!"  she  exclaims,  with  a  start;  "what 
are  you  doing  here  ?  Are  you  waiting  for  anybody  ?" 

"  Yes,"  he  replies,  with  some  harshness,  "  for  you !" 

"  Ah !"  And,  without  looking  at  him,  she  hurries  on 
to  the  door  of  the  drawing-room. 

"There   is  no  one  there,"   he  informs  her;   "they 


"  O  THOU,  MF  A  VSTRIA  t"  121 

nave  all  gone  to  the  summer-house  in  the  garden. 
Wenkendorf  proposes  to  read  aloud  the  libretto  of 
'  Parzifal.'  "  He  pauses. 

"  And  did  you  stay  here  to  tell  me  this  ?"  she  stam- 
mers, trying  to  pass  him,  OP  her  way  to  the  steps 
leading  into  the  garden.  "  It  was  very  kind  of  you ; 
you  seem  destined  to  play  the  part  of  sheep-dog  to-day, 
to  drive  the  company  together." 

They  go  into  tho  garden,  and  the  buzz  of  voices 
reaches  their  ears  from  the  summer-house.  They  have 
turned  into  a  shady  path,  above  which  arches  the 
foliage  of  the  shrubs  on  either  side.  Suddenly  Harry 
pauses,  and  seizing  his  cousin's  slender  hands  in  both 
his  own,  he  gazes  steadily  and  angrily  into  her  eyes, 
saying,  in  a  suppressed  voice, — 

"  Zdena,  how  can  you  hurt  me  so  ?" 

Her  youthful  blood  pulsates  almost  as  fiercely  as 
does  his  own ;  now,  when  the  moment  for  an  explana- 
tion has  come,  and  can  no  longer  be  avoided, — now, 
one  kind  word  from  him,  and  all  the  barriers  which 
with  the  help  of  pure  reason  she  has  erected  to  shield 
her  from  the  insidious  sweetness  of  her  dreams  will 
crumble  to  dust.  But  Harry  does  not  speak  this  word  : 
he  is  far  too  agitated  to  speak  it.  Instead  of  touching 
her  heart,  his  harshness  irritates  her  pride.  Throwing 
back  her  head,  she  darts  an  angry  glance  at  him  from 
her  large  eyes. 

"  I  do  not  know  what  you  mean." 

"  I  mean  that  you  are  letting  that  old  coxcomb  make 
love  to  you,"  he  murmurs,  angrily. 

She  lifts  her  eyebrows,  and  replies,  calmly,  "  Yes  I" 
F  11 


122  "0  THOU,  MF  AUSTRIA!" 

The  young  officer  continues  to  gaze  searchingly  into 
her  face. 

"You  are  thoughtless,"  he  says,  slowly,  with  em- 
phasis. "  In  your  eyes  Wenkendorf  is  an  old  man ; 
but  he  does  not  think  himself  so  old  as  you  think 

him,  and — and "  Suddenly,  his  forced  composure 

giving  way,  he  bursts  forth :  "  At  the  least  it  is  ridicu- 
lous ! — it  is  silly  to  behave  as  you  are  doing !" 

In  the  entire  dictionary  Harry  could  have  found  no 
word  with  which  to  describe  Zdena's  conduct  that 
would  have  irritated  her  more  than  "silly."  If  he 
had  called  her  unprincipled,  devilish,  odious,  cruel, 
she  could  have  forgiven  him ;  but  "  silly !" — that  word 
she  never  can  forgive;  it  makes  her  heart  burn  and 
smart  as  salt  irritates  an  open  wound. 

"  I  should  like  to  know  by  what  right  you  call  me 
thus  to  account !"  she  exclaims,  indignantly. 

"  By  what  right  ?"  he  repeats,  beside  himself.  "  Can 
you  ask  that  ?" 

She  taps  the  gravel  of  the  pathway  defiantly  with 
her  foot  and  is  obstinately  silent. 

"  What  did  you  mean  by  your  treatment  of  me  in 
Vienna  ?  what  did  you  mean  by  all  your  loving  looks 
and  kind  words?  what  did  you  mean  when  you — on 
the  evening  before  you  left " 

Zdena's  face  is  crimson,  her  cheeks  and  ears  burn 
with  mortification. 

"We  grew  up  together  like  brother  and  sister," 
she  murmurs.  "I  have  always  considered  you  as  a 
brother " 

"  Ah,  indeed ! — a  brother !"    His  pulses  throb  wildly ; 


«O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  123 

his  anger  well-nigh  makes  him  forget  himself.  Sud- 
denly an  ugly  idea  occurs  to  him, — an  odious  suspicion. 
"  Perhaps  you  were  not  aware  there  in  Vienna  that  by 
a  marriage  with  you  I  should  resign  my  brilliant  pros- 
pects ?" 

They  confront  each  other,  stiff,  unbending,  both 
angry,  each  more  ready  to  offend  than  to  conciliate. 

Around  them  the  August  heat  broods  over  the 
garden;  the  bushes,  the  flowers,  the  shrubbery,  all 
cast  black  shadows  upon  the  smooth-shaven,  yellowing 
grass,  where  here  and  there  cracks  in  the  soil  are  visi- 
ble. Everything  is  quiet,  but  in  the  distance  can  be 
heard  the  gardener  filling  his  large  watering-can  at 
the  pump,  and  the  jolting  along  the  road  outside 
the  garden  of  the  heavy  harvest-wagons  laden  with 
grain. 

"  Did  you  know  it  then  ?"  he  asks  again,  more  harshly, 
more  contemptuously. 

Of  course  she  knew  it,  quite  as  well  as  she  knows  it 
now ;  but  what  use  is  there  in  her  telling  him  so,  when 
he  asks  her  about  it  in  such  a  tone  ? 

Instead  of  replying,  she  frowns  haughtily  and  shrugs 
her  shoulders. 

For  one  moment  more  he  stands  gazing  into  her  face ; 
then,  with  a  bitter  laugh,  he  turns  from  her  and  strides 
towards  the  summer-house. 

"  Harry !"  she  calls  after  him,  in  a  trembling  under- 
tone, but  his  blood  is  coursing  too  hotly  in  his  veins — 
he  does  not  hear  her.  Although  he  is  one  of  the  softest- 
hearted  of  men,  he  is  none  the  less  one  of  the  most 
quick-tempered  and  obstinate. 


124  "  O  THO  U,  MY  A  USTRIA  /" 

We  leave  it  to  the  reader  to  judge  whether  the 
major  would  have  been  very  well  satisfied  with  this 
result  of  his  cunning  diplomacy. 

•"Whilst  the  two  young  people  have  been  thus  occupied 
in  playing  at  hide-and-seek  with  their  emotions  and 
sentiments,  the  little  summer-house,  where  the  reading 
was  to  be  held,  has  been  the  scene  of  a  lively  dispute. 
Countess  Zriny  and  Baron  Wenkendorf  have  made 
mutual  confession  of  their  sentiment  with  regard  to 
"Wagner. 

The  Countess  is  a  vehement  opponent  of  the  prophet 
of  Bayreuth,  in  the  first  place  because  in  her  youth 
she  was  a  pupil  of  Cicimara's  and  consequently  cannot 
endure  the  'screaming  called  singing'  introduced  by 
"Wagner;  secondly,  because  Wagner's  operas  always 
give  her  headache;  and  thirdly,  because  she  has  noticed 
that  his  operas  are  sure  to  exercise  an  immoral  influ- 
ence upon  those  who  hear  them. 

Wenkendorf,  on  the  contrary,  considers  Wagner  a 
great  moral  reformer,  the  first  genius  of  the  century 
in  Germany, — Bismarck,  of  course,  excepted.  As  he 
talks  be  holds  in  his  hand  the  thick  volume  of  Wagner's 
collected  librettos,  with  his  forefinger  on  the  title-page 
of  '  Parzifal,'  impatiently  awaiting  the  moment  when 
he  can  begin  to  read  aloud. 

Hitherto,  since  the  Countess  and  Wenkendorf  are 
both  well-bred  people,  their  lively  dispute  has  been 
conducted  in  rather  a  humorous  fashion,  but  finally 
Wenkendorf  suggests  a  most  reprehensible  and,  in  the 
eyes  of  the  Countess,  unpardonable  idea. 

"  Whatever  may  be  thought  of  Wagner's  work,  it 


"O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  125 

cannot  be  denied,"  he  says,  with  an  oratorical  flourish 
of  his  hand,  "  that  he  is  at  the  head  of  the  greatest 
musical  revolution  ever  known;  that  he  has,  so  to 
speak,  delivered  music  from  conventional  Catholicism, 
overladen  as  it  is  with  all  sorts  of  silly  old-world 
superstition.  He  is,  if  I  may  so  express  myself,  the 
Luther  of  music." 

At  the  word  'Luther,'  uttered  in  raised  tones,  the 
bigoted  Countess  nearly  faints  away.  In  her  eyes, 
Luther  is  an  apostate  monk  who  married  a  nun, — a 
monster  whom  she  detests. 

"  Oh,  if  you  so  compare  him,  Wagner  is  indeed  con- 
demned!" she  exclaims,  flushing  with  indignation,  and 
trembling  through  all  her  mass  of  flesh. 

At  this  moment  Zdena  and  her  cousin  enter.  Count- 
ess Zriny  feels  it  her  duty  to  embrace  the  girl  patron- 
izingly. Hedwig  says  something  to  her  about  her  new 
gown. 

"  Did  you  get  it  in  Paris  ?"  she  asks.  "  I  saw  one 
like  it  in  Vienna  last  summer, — but  it  is  very  pretty. 
You  carry  yourself  much  better  than  you  used  to, 
Zdena, — really  a  great  improvement  I — a  great  improve- 
ment!" 

At  last  all  are  seated.  Baron  "Wenkendorf  clears  his 
throat,  and  opens  the  portly  volume. 

"  Now  we  can  begin,"  Frau  Eosamunda  observes. 

The  Baron  begins.  He  reads  himself  into  a  great 
degree  of  enthusiasm,  and  is  just  pronouncing  the 
words, — 

"  Then  after  pain's  drear  night 
Comes  morning's  glorious  light; 
11* 


126  "0  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA  I" 

Before  me  gleams 

Brightly  the  sacred  wave, 
The  blessed  daylight  beams, 

From  night  of  pain  to  save 
Gavrain " 

when  Frau  Eosamunda,  who  has  been  rummaging  in 
her  work-basket,  rises. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Eosamunda  ?"  the  Baron  asks, 
impatiently.  He  is  the  only  one  who  addresses  her  by 
her  beautiful  baptismal  name  unmutilated. 

"Excuse  me,  my  dear  Eoderich,  but  I  cannot  find 
my  thimble.  Zdena,  be  so  kind  as  to  go  and  get  me 
my  thimble." 

While  Zdena  has  gone  to  look  for  it,  Frau  von  Les- 
kjewitsch  turns  to  her  cousin,  who  is  rather  irritated 
by  this  interruption,  and  exclaims,  "  Very  interesting ! 
— oh,  extremely  interesting !  Do  you  not  think  so  ?" 
turning  for  confirmation  of  her  opinion  to  the  other 
listeners.  But  the  other  listeners  do  not  respond. 
Countess  Zriny,  who,  with  her  hands  as  usual  encased 
in  Swedish  gloves,  is  knitting  with  thick,  wooden  nee- 
dles something  brown  for  the  poor,  only  drops  her 
double  chin  majestically  upon  her  breast,  and  Harry — 
usually  quite  unsurpassable  in  the  well-bred  art  of 
being  bored  with  elegance  and  decorum — is  tugging 
angrily  at  his  moustache. 

Zdena  shortly  returns  with  the  missing  thimble. 
The  reading  begins  afresh,  and  goes  quite  smoothly  for 
a  time ;  Wenkendorf  is  satisfied  with  his  audience. 

"  Oh,  wonderful  and  sacred  one !"  he  is  reading,  with 
profound  emotion. 


"  O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA  I"  127 

Everyone  is  listening  eagerly.  Hark!  A  scratch- 
ing noise,  growing  louder  each  minute,  and  finally 
ending  in  a  pounding  at  the  summer-house  door,  arouses 
the  little  company  from  its  rapt  attention.  A  smile 
lights  up  Frau  Rosamunda's  serene  features : 

"  It  is  Mori.  Let  him  in,  Harry."  Mori,  the  host- 
ess's black  poodle,  is  admitted,  goes  round  the  circle, 
laying  his  paw  confidingly  upon  the  knee  of  each 
member  of  it  in  turn,  is  petted  and  caressed  by  his 
mistress,  and  finally,  after  he  has  vainly  tried  to  oust 
the  Countess  Zriny  from  the  corner  of  the  sofa  which 
he  considers  his  own  special  property,  establishes  him- 
self, with  a  low  growl,  in  the  other  corner  of  that  piece 
of  furniture. 

Wenkendorf,  meanwhile,  drums  the  march  from 
'Tannhauser'  softly  on  the  cover  of  his  thick  book 
and  frowns  disapprovingly.  Harry  observes  his  an- 
noyance with  satisfaction,  watching  him  the  while 
attentively,  and  reflecting  on  the  excellent  match  in 
view  of  which  Zdena  has  forgotten  her  fleeting  at- 
tachment for  the  playmate  of  her  childhood. 

"A  contemptible  creature!"  he  says  to  himself: 
"any  man  is  good  enough  to  afford  her  amusement. 
Who  would  have  thought  it  ?  Fool  that  I  was !  I'm 
well  out  of  it, — yes,  really  well  out  of  it." 

And  whilst  he  thus  seriously  attempts  to  persuade 
himself  that,  under  the  circumstances,  nothing  could 
be  more  advantageous  for  him  than  this  severance  of 
all  ties  with  his  beautiful,  fickle  cousin,  his  heart  burns 
like  fire  in  his  breast.  He  has  never  before  felt  any- 
thing like  this  torture.  His  glance  wanders  across  to 


128  "O  77/0 U,  Mr  AUSTRIA  I" 

where  Zdena  sits  sewing,  with  bent  head  and  feverish 
intentness,  upon  a  piece  of  English  embroidery. 

The  reading  is  interrupted  again, — this  time  by 
Krupitschka,  who  wants  more  napkins  for  afternoon 
tea.  Wenkendorf  has  to  be  assured  with  great  em- 
phasis that  they  all  think  the  text  of  'Parziful'  ex- 
tremely interesting  before  he  can  be  induced  to  open 
the  book  again.  Suddenly  the  gravel  outside  crunches 
beneath  approaching  footsteps.  The  major's  voice  is 
heard,  speaking  in  courteous  tones,  and  then  another, 
strange  voice,  deep  and  guttural.  The  summer-house 
door  is  opened. 

"  A  surprise,  Rosel,"  the  major  explains.  "  Baroness 
Paula!" 

The  first  to  go  forward  and  welcome  the  young  lady 
cordially  is  Harry. 


«O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA  I"  129 

CHAPTER   V. 

BARONESS   PAULA. 

THE  unexpected  entrance  of  the  famous  beauty  pro- 
duces two  important  results, — the  final  cessation  of 
the  reading  of  '  Parzifal,'  and  a  temporary  reconcilia- 
tion between  Wenkendorf  and  Countess  Zriny. 

Whilst  Frau  Rosamunda  receives  her  guest,  not 
without  a  degree  of  formal  reserve,  the  two  aforesaid 
worthy  and  inquisitive  individuals  retire  to  a  corner 
to  consult  together  as  to  where  these  Harfinks  come 
from,  to  whom  they  are  related,  the  age  of  their  patent 
of  nobility,  and  where  they  got  their  money. 

Since  neither  knows  much  about  the  Harfinks,  their 
curiosity  is  ungratified.  Meanwhile,  Baroness  Paula, 
lounging  in  a  garden-chair  beside  the  majestic  hostess, 
chatters  in  a  lively  fashion  upon  every  conceivable 
topic,  as  much  at  her  ease  as  if  she  had  been  a  daily 
guest  at  Zirkow  for  years.  Her  full  voice  is  rather 
loud,  her  fluent  vocabulary  astounding.  She  wears  a 
green  Russia  linen  gown  with  Turkish  embroidery  on 
the  skirt  and  a  Venetian  necklace  around  her  throat, 
with  an  artistically-wrought  clasp  in  front  of  her 
closely-fitting  waist.  The  effect  of  her  cosmopolitan 
toilet  is  considerably  enhanced  by  a  very  peaked 
Paris  bonnet — all  feathers — and  a  pair  of  English 
driving-gloves.  She  has  come  in  her  pony-carriage, 
which  she  drives  herself.  Not  taking  into  account 


130  "O   THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA /» 

her  dazzling  toilet,  Paula  is  certainly  a  pretty  person, 
— very  fully  developed  and  well  grown,  with  perhaps 
too  short  a  waist  and  arms  a  trifle  too  stout.  Her 
features  are  regular,  but  her  face  is  too  large,  and  its 
tints  of  red  and  white  are  not  sufficiently  mingled ; 
her  lips  are  too  full,  the  dimples  in  her  cheeks  are 
too  deep  when  she  smiles.  Her  hair  is  uncommonly 
beautiful, — golden,  with  a  shimmer  of  Titian  red. 

Her  manner  corresponds  with  her  exterior.  There 
is  not  a  trace  of  maidenly  reserve  about  her.  Her 
self-satisfaction  is  impregnable.  She  talks  freely  of 
things  of  which  young  girls  do  not  usually  talk,  and 
knows  things  which  young  girls  do  not  usually  know. 

She  is  clever  and  well  educated, — left  school  with 
honours  and  listened  to  all  possible  university  lectures 
afterwards.  She  scatters  about  Latin  quotations  like 
an  old  professor,  and  talks  about  everything, — the 
new  battle  panorama  in  Yienna,  the  latest  greenroom 
scandal  in  Pesth,  the  most  recent  scientific  hypothesis, 
and  the  last  interesting  English  divorce  case.  One 
cannot  help  feeling  that  she  has  brought  a  certain 
life  into  the  dead-and-alive  little  company  which  had 
failed  to  be  enlivened  by  the  reading  of  '  Parzifal.' 

"  Quelle  typel"  Wenkondorf  remarks  to  Countess 
Zriny. 

"  fipouvantable  /"  she  whispers. 

"  fipouvantable  /"  he  responds,  staring  meanwhile  at 
the  brilliant  apparition.  "Her  figure  is  not  bad, 
though,"  he  adds. 

"Not  bad?"  the  Countess  repeats,  indignantly. 
"Why,  she  has  the  figure  of  a  country  bar-maid j 


«0  TI10U,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  131 

involuntarily  one  fancies  her  in  short  petticoats,  with 
her  arms  full  of  beer-mugs." 

The  Baron  shakes  his  head,  as  if  reflecting  that  there 
is  nothing  so  very  unattractive  in  the  image  of  the 
young  lady  in  the  costume  of  a  bar-maid ;  at  the  same 
time,  however,  he  declares  with  emphasis  that  these 
Harfinks  seem  to  be  odious  canaille,  which,  although 
it  is  perhaps  his  conviction,  does  not  hinder  him  from 
admiring  Paula. 

All  the  gentlemen  present  admire  her,  and  all  three, 
the  major,  the  Baron,  and  Harry,  are  soon  grouped 
about  her,  while  the  ladies  at  the  other  end  of  the 
room  converse, — that  is,  make  disparaging  remarks 
with  regard  to  the  Baroness  Paula. 

Harry,  of  the  three  men,  is  most  pressing  in  his  at- 
tentions, which  amount  almost  to  devotion.  Whatever 
he  may  whisper  to  her  she  listens  to  with  the  unblush- 
ing ease  which  makes  life  so  smooth  for  her.  Some- 
times she  represses  him  slightly,  and  anon  provokes 
his  homage. 

The  ladies  hope  for  a  while,  but  in  vain,  that  she 
will  go  soon.  She  is  pleased  to  take  a  cup  of  after- 
noon tea,  after  which  all  return  to  the  house,  where 
at  Harry's  request  she  makes  a  display  of  her  musical 
acquirements. 

First  she  plays,  with  extreme  force  and  much  use  of 
the  pedals,  upon  the  venerable  old  piano,  unused  to 
such  treatment,  even  from  the  major,  the  ride  of  the 
Valkyrias,  after  which  she  sings  a  couple  of  soprano 
airs  from  '  Tannhauser.' 

Harry  admires  her  splendid  method;  Countess  Zriny 


132  "O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!" 

privately  stops  her  ears  with  a  little  cotton-wool.  Hour 
after  hour  passes,  and  Krupitschka  finally  announces 
supper.  Baroness  Paula  begins  hurriedly  to  put  on 
her  driving-gloves,  but  when  Frau  Leskjewitsch,  with 
rather  forced  courtesy,  invites  her  to  stay  to  supper, 
she  replies,  "  With  the  greatest  pleasure." 

And  now  the  supper  is  over.  Harry's  seat,  mean- 
while, has  been  next  to  Paula's,  and  he  has  continued 
to  pay  her  extravagant  compliments,  which  he  ought 
not  to  have  done;  and,  moreover,  without  eating  a 
morsel,  he  has  drunk  glass  after  glass  of  the  good  old 
Bordeaux  of  which  the  major  is  so  proud.  All  this  has 
produced  a  change  in  him.  The  gnawing  pain  at  his 
heart  is  lulled  to  rest;  his  love  for  Zdena  and  his 
quarrel  with  her  seem  relegated  to  the  far  past.  For 
the  present,  here  is  this  luxuriant  beauty,  with  her  flow 
of  talk  and  her  Titian  hair.  Without  being  intox- 
icated, the  wine  has  mounted  to  his  brain ;  his  limbs 
are  a  little  heavy;  he  feels  a  pleasant  languor  steal 
over  him ;  everything  looks  rather  more  vague  and 
delightful  than  usual;  instead  of  a  severe,  exacting 
beauty  beside  him,  here  is  this  wonderful  creature, 
with  her  dazzling  complexion  and  her  green,  naiad- 
like  eyes. 

Countess  Zriny  and  Hedwig  have  already  ordered 
their  old-fashioned  coach  and  have  started  for  home. 
Harry's  horses — his  own  and  his  groom's — are  wait- 
ing before  the  entrance. 

It  is  ten  o'clock, — time  for  bed  at  Zirkow.  Frau 
Rosamunda  rubs  her  eyes;  Zdena  stands,  unheeded  and 
weary,  in  one  of  the  window  embrasures  in  the  hall, 


«O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIAN  133 

looking  out  through  the  antique,  twisted  grating  upon 
the  brilliant  August  moonlight.  Paula  is  still  con- 
versing with  the  gentlemen ;  she  proposes  a  method 
for  exterminating  the  phylloxera,  and  has  just  formu- 
lated a  scheme  for  the  improvement  of  the  Austrian 
foundling  asylums. 

They  are  waiting  for  her  pony-carriage  to  appear, 
but  it  does  not  come.  At  last,  the  gardener's  boy,  who 
is  occasionally  promoted  to  a  footman's  place,  comes, 
quite  out  of  breath,  to  inform  his  mistress  that. Baron- 
ess Paula's  groom  is  in  the  village  inn,  so  drunk  that 
he  cannot  walk  across  the  floor,  and  threatening  to 
fight  any  one  who  interferes  with  him. 

"  Very  unpleasant  intelligence,"  says  Paula,  without 
losing  an  atom  of  her  equanimity.  "  There  is  nothing 
left  to  do,  then,  but  to  drive  home  without  him.  I  do 
not  need  him ;  he  sits  behind  me,  and  is  really  only  a 
conventional  encumbrance,  nothing  more.  Good-night, 
Baroness !  Thanks,  for  the  charming  afternoon.  Good- 
night 1  good-night!  Now  that  the  ice  is  broken,  I 
trust  we  shall  be  good  neighbours."  So  saying,  she 
goes  out  of  the  open  hall  door. 

Frau  Rosamunda  seems  to  have  no  objections  to  her 
driving  without  an  escort  to  Dobrotschau,  which  is 
scarcely  three-quarters  of  an  hour's  drive  from  Zirkow, 
and  even  the  major  apparently  considers  this  broad- 
shouldered  and  vigorous  young  woman  to  be  emi- 
nently fitted  to  make  her  way  in  the  world  alone. 
But  Harry  interposes. 

"  You  don't  mean  to  drive  home  alone  ?"  he  exclaims. 
"Well,  I  admire  your  courage, — as  I  admire  every- 

12 


134  "0  THOU,  MF  AUSTRIA!" 

thing  else  about  you,"  he  adds,  sotto  voce,  and  with  a 
Blight  inclination  of  his  head  towards  her, — "  but  I 
cannot  permit  it.  You  might  meet  some  drunken 
labourer  and  be  exposed  to  annoyance.  Do  me  the 
honour  to  accept  me  as  your  escort, — that  is,  allow  me 
to  take  the  place  of  your  useless  groom." 

"  By  no  means !"  she  exclaims.  "  I  never  could  for- 
give myself  for  giving  you  so  much  trouble.  I  assure 
you,  I  am  perfectly  able  to  take  care  of  myself." 

"  On  certain  occasions  even  the  most  capable  and 
clever  of  women  lose  their  capacity  to  judge,"  Harry 
declares.  "  Be  advised  this  time  I"  he  implores  her,  as 
earnestly  as  though  he  were  praying  his  soul  out  of 
purgatory.  "  My  groom  will  accompany  us.  He  must, 
of  course,  take  my  horse  to  Dobrotschau.  Have  no 
scruples." 

As  if  it  would  ever  have  occurred  to  Baroness  Paula 
to  have  "  scruples" !  Oh,  Harry ! 

"  If  you  really  would  be  so  kind  then,  Baron  Harry," 
Bhe  murmurs,  tenderly. 

"  Thank  God,  she  has  gone  at  last !"  sighs  Frau  Kosa- 
munda,  as  she  hears  the  light  wagon  rolling  away  into 
the  night.  "At  last!" 


•«O  277017,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  135 

CHAPTEE   VI. 

ENTRAPPED. 

BEFORE  Harry  seated  himself  beside  the  robust 
Paula  in  the  pony-carriage,  a  slender  little  hand  was 
held  out  to  him,  and  a  pale  little  face,  half  sad,  half 
pouting,  looked  longingly  up  at  him. 

He  saw  neither  the  hand  nor  the  face.  Oh,  the  pity 
of  it! 

The  night  is  sultry  and  silent.  The  full  moon  shines 
in  a  cloudless,  dark-blue  sky.  Not  a  breath  of  air  is 
stirring;  the  leaves  of  the  tall  poplars,  casting  coal- 
black  shadows  on  the  white,  dusty  highway,  are  mo- 
tionless. 

The  harvest  has  been  partly  gathered  in ;  sometimes 
the  moonlight  illumines  the  bare  fields  with  a  yellow- 
ish lustre;  in  other  fields  the  sheaves  are  stacked  in 
pointed  heaps,  and  now  and  then  a  field  of  rye  is 
passed,  a  plain  of  glimmering,  silvery  green,  still  un- 
cut. The  bearded  stalks  stand  motionless  with  bowed 
heads,  as  if  overtaken  by  sleep.  From  the  distance 
comes  the  monotonous  rustle  of  the  mower's  scythe ; 
there  is  work  going  on  even  thus  far  into  the  night. 

The  heavy  slumberous  air  has  an  effect  upon  Harry ; 
his  breath  comes  slowly,  his  veins  tingle. 

Ten  minutes  have  passed,  and  he  has  not  opened  his 
lips.  Paula  Harfink  looks  at  him  now  and  then  with 
a  keen  glance. 


136  "O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!" 

She  is  twenty-seven  years  old,  and,  although  her  life 
has  been  that  of  a  perfectly  virtuous  woman  of  her  class, 
existence  no  longer  holds  any  secrets  for  her.  Endowed 
by  nature  with  intense  curiosity,  which  has  been  grad- 
ually exalted  into  a  thirst  for  knowledge,  she  has  read 
everything  that  is  worth  reading  in  native  and  foreign 
modern  literature,  scientific  and  otherwise,  and  she  is 
consequently  thoroughly  conversant  with  the  world  in 
which  she  lives. 

Harry's  exaggerated  homage  during  the  afternoon 
has  suggested  the  idea  that  he  contemplates  a  marriage 
with  her.  That  other  than  purely  sentimental  reasons 
have  weight  with  him  in  this  respect  she  thinks  highly 
probable,  but  there  is  nothing  offensive  to  her  in  the 
thought.  She  knows  that,  in  spite  of  her  beauty,  she 
must  buy  a  husband ;  why  then  should  she  not  buy  a 
husband  whom  she  likes? 

Nothing  could  happen  more  opportunely  than  this 
drive  in  the  moonlight.  She  is  quite  sure  of  bringing 
the  affair  to  a  satisfactory  conclusion. 

Click-clack — the  ponies'  hoofs  beat  the  dusty  road 
in  monotonous  rhythm,  tossing  light  silvery  clouds  of 
dust  into  the  moonlight.  Harry  is  still  silent,  when — 
a  plump  hand  is  laid  upon  his  arm. 

"  Please,"  Paula  murmurs,  half  laughing,  and  handing 
him  the  reins,  "  drive  for  me.  The  ponies  are  so  fresh 
to-night,  they  almost  pull  my  hands  off." 

Harry  bows,  the  ponies  shake  their  manes,  snort 
proudly,  and  increase  their  speed,  seeming  to  feel  a 
sympathetic  hand  upon  the  reins. 

"  And  I  fancied  I  could  drive !"  Paula  says,  with  a 


"O   THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA /"  137 

laugh ;  "  it  is  a  positive  pleasure  to  see  you  handle  the 
reins." 

"  But  such  toys  as  these  ponies !"  he  remarks,  -with 
a  rather  impatient  protest. 

"  Can  you  drive  four-in-hand  ?"  she  asks,  bluntly. 

"  Yes,  and  five-in-hand,  or  six-in-hand,  for  that  mat- 
ter,"  he  replies. 

"  Of  course  I  How  stupid  of  me  to  ask !  Did  you 
not  drive  five-in-hand  on  the  Prater,  three  years  ago 
on  the  first  of  May  ?  Three  chestnuts  and  two  bays, 
if  I  remember  rightly." 

"Yes;  you  certainly  have  an  admirable  memory!" 
Harry  murmurs,  flattered. 

"  Not  for  everything,"  she  declares,  eagerly ;  "  I  never 
can  remember  certain  things.  For  instance,  I  never 
can  remember  the  unmarried  name  of  Peter  the  Great's 
mother." 

u  She  was  a  Narischkin,  I  believe,"  says  Harry,  who 
learned  the  fact  on  one  occasion  when  some  foolish 
Narischkin  was  boasting  of  his  imperial  connections. 

Heaven  knows  what  induces  him  to  make  a  display 
to  Paula  of  his  historical  knowledge.  He  usually  sup- 
presses everything  in  that  direction  which  he  owes  to 
his  good  memory,  as  a  learned  marriageable  girl  will 
hold  her  tongue  for  fear  of  scaring  away  admirers. 
Harry  thinks  it  beneath  his  dignity  to  play  the  cultured 
officer.  He  leaves  that  to  the  infantry. 

"  You  distance  me  in  every  direction,"  Paula  says ; 
"  but  as  a  whip  you  inspire  me  with  the  most  respect. 
I  could  not  take  my  eyes  off  your  turn-out  that  day 
in  the  Prater.  How  docile  and  yet  how  spirited  those 

12* 


138  "0  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!" 

five  creatures  were  under  your  guidance !  And  you  sat 
there  holding  the  reins  with  as  much  indifference  ap- 
parently as  if  they  had  been  your  shako  at  a  state  cere- 
mony. I  cannot  understand  how  you  contrive  to  keep 
the  reins  of  a  five-in-hand  disentangled." 

"  I  find  it  much  more  difficult  to  understand  how  a 
man  can  play  the  guitar,"  Harry  says,  dryly. 

Paula  laughs,  though  with  a  sense  of  vexation  at 
being  still  so  far  from  the  attainment  of  her  purpose. 
She  takes  off  her  tall  hat,  tosses  it  carelessly  into  the 
seat  behind  them,  and  slowly  pulls  the  gloves  off  her 
white  hands. 

"That  is  refreshing!"  she  says,  and  then  is  silent. 
For  the  nonce  it  is  her  wisest  course. 

Harry's  eyes  seek  her  face,  then  take  in  her  entire 
figure,  and  then  again  rest  upon  her  face.  The  moon 
is  shining  with  a  hard,  bluish  brilliancy,  almost  like 
that  of  an  electric  light,  and  it  brings  into  wondrous 
relief  the  girl's  mature  beauty.  Its  intense  brightness 
shimmers  about  her  golden  hair ;  the  red  and  white  of 
her  complexion  blend  in  a  dim,  warm  pallor.  Her 
white  hands  rest  in  her  lap  as  she  leans  back  among 
the  cushions  of  the  phaeton. 

Click-clack — click-clack — the  hoofs  of  the  horses  fly 
over  the  smooth,  hard  road;  duller  and  less  regular 
grows  the  beat  of  the  horses'  hoofs  behind  the  wagon, 
— of  Harry's  steed  and  that  of  his  groom. 

The  fields  of  grain  have  vanished.  They  are  driving 
now  through  a  village, — a  silent  village,  where  every 
one  is  asleep.  The  dark  window-panes  glisten  in  the 
moonlight;  the  shadows  of  the  pointed  roofs  form  a 


"O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  139 

black  zigzag  on  the  road,  dividing  it  into  two  parts, — 
one  dark,  one  light.  Only  behind  one  window  shines 
a  candle ;  perhaps  a  mother  is  watching  there  beside  a 
sick  or  dying  child.  The  candle-light,  with  its  yellow 
gleam,  contrasts  strangely  with  the  bluish  moonlight. 
A  dog  bays  behind  a  gate ;  otherwise,  all  is  quiet. 

And  now  the  village  lies  behind  them, — a  chaos  of 
black  roofs,  whitewashed  walls,  and  dark  lindens.  To 
the  right  and  left  are  pasture-lands,  where  countless 
wild  chamomile-flowers  glitter  white  and  ghostly  among 
the  grass,  in  the  midst  of  which  rises  a  rude  wooden 
crucifix.  The  pungent  fragrance  of  the  chamomile- 
flowers  mingles  with  the  odour  of  the  dust  of  the 
road. 

Then  the  pastures  vanish,  with  the  chamomile-flowers 
and  the  oppressive  silence.  A  forest  extends  on  either 
side  of  the  road, — a  forest  which  is  never  silent,  where 
even  in  so  quiet  a  night  as  this  the  topmost  boughs 
murmur  dreamily.  It  sounds  almost  like  the  dull  plaint 
of  human  souls,  imprisoned  in  these  ancient  pines, — 
the  souls  of  men  who  aspired  too  high  in  life,  seeking 
the  way  to  the  stars  which  gleamed  so  kindly  when 
admired  from  afar,  but  which  fled  like  glittering  will- 
o'-the-wisps  from  those  who  would  fain  approach  them. 

The  moonlight  seems  to  drip  down  the  boles  of  the 
monarchs  of  the  wood  like  molten  silver,  to  lie  here 
and  there  upon  the  underbrush  around  their  feet.  A 
strong  odour  rises  from  the  warm  woodland  earth, — 
the  odour  of  dead  leaves,  mingling  deliciously  with  all 
other  forest  fragrance. 

"  How  wonderful  1"  Paula  whispers. 


140  "O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!" 

"Yes,  it  is  beautiful,"  says  Harry;  and  again  his 
eyes  seek  the  face  of  his  companion. 

"And  do  you  know  what  is  still  more  beautiful?" 
she  murmurs.  "  To  feel  protected,  safe, — to  know  that 
some  one  else  will  think  for  you." 

The  road  grows  rough;  the  wheels  jolt  over  the 
stones ;  the  little  carriage  sways  from  side  to  side. 
Paula  clutches  Harry's  arm.  Her  waving  hair  brushes 
his  cheek  ;  it  thrills  him.  She  starts  back  from  him. 

"  Pardon  me,"  she  murmurs,  as  if  mortified. 

"Pardon  me,  Baroness,"  he  says.  "I  had  no  idea 
that  the  forest-road  was  so  rough ;  it  is  the  shortest. 
Did  you  not  come  by  it  to  Zirkow  ?" 

"No." 

"  You  ought  to  have  warned  me." 

"  I  had  forgotten  it." 

Again  the  wheels  creak ;  tire  ponies  snort  their  dis- 
satisfaction, the  little  vehicle  sways,  and  Paula  trembles. 

"  I  am  afraid  it  will  be  rougher  yet,"  says  Harry. 
"  How  stupid  of  me  not  to  have  thought  of  it  1  There ! 
— the  mud  is  really  deep.  Who  could  have  supposed 
it  in  this  drought  ?  "We  are  near  the  Poacher's  ditch : 
I  can  perceive  the  swampy  odour  in  the  air." 

"  The  Poacher's  ditch  ?"  Paula  repeats,  in  a  low  tone. 
"  Is  that  the  uncanny  place  where  the  will-o'-the-wisps 
dance  ?" 

"  Are  you  afraid  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  So  brave  an  Amazon — afraid  ?" 

"  Yes,  for  the  first  time  in  my  life.  I  do  not  know 
what  has  come  over  me,"  she  whispers. 


"O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA  1"  UI 

"  A  poor  compliment  for  me !"  he  says,  then  pauses 
and  looks  at  her. 

She  turns  away  her  head  as  if  she  were  blushing. 

The  tall  pines  crowd  closer  and  closer  on  either  side 
of  the  road ;  the  strip  of  moon-lit  sky  grows  narrower 
overhead  ;  the  damp  odour  of  decaying  vegetation  poi- 
sons the  air.  The  gloom  is  intense,  the  moonbeams 
cannot  find  their  way  hither.  In  particular  the  road 
and  the  lower  portion  of  the  tree-trunks  are  veiled  in 
deep  shade.  A  tiny  blue  flame  flickers  up  from  the 
ground,  dances  among  the  trees, — then  another — and 
another 

"  Ah !"  Paula  screams  and  clings  like  a  maniac  to 
Harry.  He  puts  his  arm  round  her,  and  soothes  her, 
half  laughing  the  while.  Did  his  lips  actually  seek 
hers?  A  sudden,  lingering  kiss  bewilders  him,  like 
the  intoxicating  perfume  of  a  flower. 

It  lasts  but  a  second,  and  he  has  released  her. 

"  Forgive  me !"  he  cries,  distressed,  confused. 

Does  she  really  not  understand  him  ?  At  all  events 
she  only  shakes  her  head  at  his  words,  and  murmurs, 
"  Forgive  ? — what  is  there  to  forgive  ?  It  came  so  un- 
expectedly. I  had  no  idea  that  you  loved  me,  Harry." 

His  cheeks  burn.  The  forest  has  vanished,  the  road 
is  smooth ;  click-clack — the  ponies'  hoofs  fly  through 
the  dust,  and  behind  comes  the  irregular  thud  of  eight 
other  hoofs  along  the  road.  Harry  looks  round,  and 
sees  the  groom,  whom  ho  had  forgotten. 

The  dim  woodland  twilight  has  been  left  far  behind ; 
the  moon  floods  the  landscape  with  silvery  splendour. 
All  is  silent  around ;  not  a  leaf  stirs ;  only  the  faint, 


142  "O  THOU,  MF  AUFTRIAI" 

dying  murmur  of  the  forest  is  audible  for  a  few  mo- 
ments. 

Ten  minutes  later  Harry  draws  up  before  the  Dobrot- 
Bchau  castle.  "You  will  come  to  see  mamma  to-mor- 
row ?"  Paula  whispers,  pressing  her  lover's  hand.  But 
Harry  feels  as  if  he  could  annihilate  her,  himself,  and 
the  whole  world. 


CHAPTER   VII. 

AN   INVITATION. 

"Mr  DEAR  BARONESS, — 

"  Will  you  and  all  your  family  give  us  the  pleasure 
of  your  company  at  dinner  on  Sunday  next,  at  six 
o'clock  ?  We  wish  to  surprise  you  with  the  revelation 
of  a  secret  that  will,  we  think,  interest  you. 

"  I  hear  you  have  a  friend  with  you.  It  would,  of 
course,  be  an  added  pleasure  if  Baron  Wenkendorf 
would  join  us  on  Sunday. 

"  Hoping  for  a  favourable  reply,  I  am 

"  Sincerely  yours, 

"EiiiLiE  HARFINK." 

This  note  the  Baroness  Leskjewitsch  takes  from  an 
envelope  smelling  of  violets  and  adorned  with  an  Edel- 
weiss, and  reads  aloud  in  a  depressed  tone  to  her  hus- 
band, her  niece,  and  her  cousin,  all  of  whom  listen 


"O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA  I"  143 

with  a  more  or  less  contemptuous  expression  of  coun- 
tenance. 

Not  that  the  note  is  in  itself  any  more  awkward 
and  pretentious  than  other  notes  of  invitation, — no ; 
but  the  fact  that  it  comes  from  Baroness  Harfink  is 
quite  sufficient  to  make  the  Zirkow  circle  suspicious 
and  ironical. 

Three  days  have  passed  since  the  afternoon  when 
Harry  and  Zdena  quarrelled,  and  Zdena  has  had  time 
thoroughly  to  repent  her  experiment. 

The  little  company  is  assembled  at  the  breakfast- 
table  in  a  small  summer-house  whence  there  is  a  view 
of  a  tiny  fountain  leaping  about  a  yard  into  the  air 
from  an  oval  basin. 

Frau  Rosamunda  thinks  the  view  of  this  fountain 
refreshing ;  the  major  despises  the  plaything, — calls 
this  breakfast-arbour  the  "wash-house,"  or,  when  he 
means  to  be  particularly  disagreeable,  "  Wash-Basin 
Hall,"  assuming  the  attitude,  as  he  so  designates  it,  of 
a  kangaroo, — his  elbows  pressed  to  his  sides,  the  palms 
of  his  hands  turned  outwards, — and  availing  himself 
of  his  most  elegant  German  accent,  which  is  unfortu- 
nately rather  unnatural. 

"  Surprise  us  ?  What  surprise  can  the  Baroness  Har- 
fink prepare  for  us  in  which  we  shall  take  any  in- 
terest?" Frau  Rosamunda  says,  musingly,  laying  the 
note  down  beside  her  plate. 

"  Oh,  leave  me  out !  She  knows  that  you  are  prone 
to  curiosity,  and  she  is  doing  what  she  can  to  attract 
you  to  her  house,"  the  major  declares.  "  The  '  surprise' 
is  the  bit  of  cheese  in  the  Dobrotschau  mouse-trap, — 


144  "  O  THO  U,  MY  A  USTRIA  I" 

that  is  all.  It  may  be  a  new  service  of  old  china,  or 
some  Japanese  rug  with  golden  monsters  and  chimeras 
sprawling  about  on  it."  , 

"No;  there  is  a  tone  of  exultation  about  the  note 
which  indicates  something  far  grander,"  says  Frau 
Eosamunda,  thoughtfully,  buttering  a  piece  of  bread. 
"I  rather  think  there  is  a  new  son-in-law  to  the 
fore." 

"  H'm !  Fraulein  Paula's  betrothal  would  certainly 
be  a  matter  of  special  importance  to  us,"  the  major 
says,  contemptuously.  "  Perhaps  it  might  make  Harry 
ill.  He  made  violent  love  to  her  the  other  day !"  and 
the  old  cuirassier  glances  at  Zdena.  She  is  sipping  a 
cup  of  tea,  however,  and  her  face  cannot  be  seen. 

"I  thought  perhaps,"  Frau  Eosamunda  observes, 
"  that  Harry  might " 

"No,  Eosa.  Your  genius  is  really  too  great,"  the 
major  interrupts  her,  "  if  you  can  fancy  for  a  moment 
that  Harry  meant  anything  serious  by  his  attentions 
to  that  village  bar-maid." 

Zdena  has  put  down  her  teacup ;  her  delicate  nos- 
trils quiver  disdainfully,  her  charming  mouth  expresses 
decided  scorn.  How  could  Harry  suppose ?  Non- 
sense I 

"  Well,  stranger  things  have  come  to  pass,"  observes 
Frau  Eosamunda,  sagely.  "  Do  not  forget  that  Lato 
Treurenberg  has  married  into  the  Harfink  family." 

"Oh,  he — he  was  in  debt — h'm! — at  least  his  father 
was  in  debt,"  the  major  explains.  "That  is  entirely 
different.  But  a  man  like  Harry  would  never  risk  his 
colossal  inheritance  from  his  uncle  for  the  sake  of 


"O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  145 

Paula  Harfink.    If  it  were  for  some  one  else,  he  might 
do  so ;  but  that  red-cheeked  dromedary — ridiculous !" 

"  I  really  do  not  understand  you.  You  seemed  per- 
fectly  devoted  to  her  the  other  day,"  rejoins  Frau 
Eosamunda.  "  You  all  languished  at  her  feet, — even 
you  too,  Eoderich." 

Baron  Wenkendorf  looks  up  from  a  pile  of  letters 
and  papers  which  he  has  been  sorting. 

"What  is  the  subject  under  discussion?"  he  asks. 
Dressed  in  the  extreme  of  fashion,  in  a  light,  summer 
suit,  a  coloured  shirt  with  a  very  high  collar,  a  thin, 
dark-blue  cravat  with  polka-dots,  and  the  inevitable 
Scotch  cap,  with  fluttering  ribbons  at  the  back  of  the 
neck,  he  would  seem  much  more  at  home,  so  far  as 
his  exterior  is  concerned,  on  the  shore  at  Trouville,  or 
in  a  magnificent  park  of  ancient  oaks  with  a  feudal 
castle  in  the  background,  than  amidst  the  modest  Zir- 
kow  surroundings.  He  suspects  this  himself,  and,  in 
order  not  to  produce  a  crushing  effect  where  he  is,  he  is 
always  trying  to  display  the  liveliest  interest  in  all  the 
petty  details  of  life  at  Zirkow.  "  "What  is  the  subject 
under  discussion  ?"  he  asks,  with  an  amiable  smile. 

"  Oh,  the  Harfink." 

"Still?"  says  "Wenkendorf,  lifting  his  eyebrows  ironi- 
cally. "  The  young  lady's  ears  must  burn.  She  seems 
to  me  to  have  been  tolerably  well  discussed  during  the 
last  three  days." 

"  I  merely  observed  that  you  were  all  fire  and  flame 
for  her  while  she  was  here,"  Frau  Eosamunda  persists, 
"  and  that  consequently  I  do  not  understand  why  you 
now  criticise  her  so  severely." 
o       k  13 


146  "O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!" 

"  The  impression  produced. upon  men  by  that  kind 
of  woman  is  always  more  dazzling  than  when  it  is 
lasting,"  says  the  major. 

"  H'm ! — she  certainly  is  a  very  beautiful  person,  but 
— h'm! — not  a  lady,"  remarks  Wenkendorf;  and  his 
clear,  full  voice  expresses  the  annoyance  which  it  is 
sure  to  do  whenever  conversation  touches  upon  the 
mushroom  growth  of  modern  parvenues.  "Who  are 
these  Harfinks,  after  all?" 

"  People  who  have  made  their  own  way  to  the  front," 
growls  the  major. 

"How?" 

"By  good  luck,  industry,  and  assurance,"  replies  the 
major.  "  Old  Harfink  used  to  go  regularly  to  his  work 
every  morning,  with  his  pickaxe  on  his  shoulder ;  he 
slowly  made  his  way  upward,  working  in  the  iron- 
mines  about  here ;  then  he  married  a  wealthy  baker's 
daughter,  and  gradually  absorbed  all  the  business  of 
the  district.  He  was  very  popular.  I  can  remember 
the  time  when  every  one  called  him  '  Peter.'  Next  he 
was  addressed  as  '  Sir,'  and  it  came  to  be  the  fashion 
to  offer  him  your  hand,  but  before  giving  you  his  he 
used  to  wipe  it  on  his  coat-tail.  He  was  comical,  but 
a  very  honest  fellow,  a  plain  man  who  never  tried  to 
move  out  of  his  proper  sphere.  I  think  we  never 
grudged  him  his  wealth,  because  it  suited  him  so  ill, 
and  because  he  did  not  know  what  to  do  with  it."  And 
the  major  reflectively  pours  a  little  rum  into  his  third 
cup  of  tea. 

"I  do  not  object  to  that  kind  of  parvenu"  says 
Wenkendorf.  "  The  type  is  an  original  one.  But  there 


"  O  THO D,  MF  AUSTRIA!"  147 

is  nothing  to  my  mind  more  ridiculous  than  the  gold- 
fish spawned  in  a  muddy  pond  suddenly  fancying 
themselves  unable  to  swim  in  anything  save  eau  de 
cologne.  H'm,  h'ml  And  that  plain,  honest  fellow 
was,  you  tell  me,  the  father  of  the  lovely  Paula  ?" 

"God  forbid!"  exclaims  the  major,  bursting  into  a 
laugh  at  the  mere  thought. 

"You  have  a  tiresome  way  of  beginning  far  back 
in  every  story  you  tell,  Paul,"  Frau  Eosamunda  com- 
plains. "You  begin  all  your  pedigrees  with  Adam 
and  Eve." 

"And  you  have  a  detestable  habit  of  interrupting 
me,"  her  husband  rejoins,  angrily.  "  If  you  had  not 
interrupted  me  I  should  have  finished  long  ago." 

"  Oh,  yes,  we  all  know  that.  But  first  you  would 
have  given  us  a  description  of  old  Harfink's  boots  1" 
Frau  Rosamunda  persists. 

"  They  really  were  very  remarkable  boots,"  the  major 
declares,  solemnly.  "  They  always  looked  as  if,  instead 
of  feet,  they  had  a  peck  of  onions  inside  them." 

"  I  told  you  so.  Now  comes  the  description  of  his 
cap,"  sighs  Frau  Rosamunda. 

"  And  the  lovely  Paula's  origin  retreats  still  further 
into  obscurity,"  "Wenkendorf  says,  with  well-bred  resig- 
nation. 

"She  is  old  Harfink's  great-grand-daughter,"  saya 
Zdena,  joining  for  the  first  time  in  the  conversation. 

"  Old  Harfink  had  two  sons,"  continues  the  major, 
who  hates  to  have  the  end  of  his  stories  told  prema- 
turely ;  "  two  sons  who  developed  social  ambition,  and 
both  married  cultivated  wives, — wives  who  looked  down 


148  "0  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA  I" 

upon  them,  and  with  whom  they  could  not  agree.  If 
I  do  not  mistake,  there  was  a  sister,  too.  Tell  me,  Eosel, 
was  there  not  a  sister  who  married  an  Italian  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know,"  replies  Frau  Eosamunda.  "  The 
intricacies  of  the  Harfink  genealogy  never  inspired  me 
with  the  faintest  interest." 

The  major  bites  his  lip. 

"  One  thing  more,"  says  "Wenkendorf.  "  How  have 
you  managed  to  avoid  an  acquaintance  with  the  Har- 
finks  for  so  long,  if  the  family  has  belonged  to  the 
country  here  for  several  generations?" 

"  Harfink  number  two  never  lived  here,"  the  major 
explains.  "And  they  owned  the  iron-mines,  but  no 
estate.  Only  last  year  the  widow  Harfink  bought 
Dobrotschau, — gallery  of  ancestral  portraits,  old  suits 
of  armour,  and  all.  The  mines  have  been  sold  to  a 
stock  company." 

"  Not  a  very  pleasing  neighbourhood,  I  should  say," 
observes  Wenkendorf. 

"'  Surprise  you  with  the  revelation  of  a  secret,"* 
Frau  Eosamunda  reads,  thoughtfully,  in  a  low  tone 
from  the  note  beside  her  plate. 

And  then  all  rise  from  table.  Zdena,  who  has  been 
silent  during  breakfast,  twitches  her  uncle's  sleeve, 
and,  without  looking  at  him,  says, — 

"  Uncle  dear,  can  I  have  the  carriage  ?" 

The  major  eyes  her  askance :  "  What  do  you  want 
of  the  carriage  ?" 

"  I  should  like  to  drive  over  to  Komaritz ;  Hedwig 
will  think  it  strange  that  I  have  not  been  there  for  so 
long." 


"0  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  149 

"H'ni!  don't  you  think  Hedwig  might  do  without 
you  for  a  little  while  longer  ?"  says  the  major,  who  is 
in  a  teasing  humour. 

"Oh,  let  her  drive  over,"  Frau  Eosamunda  inter- 
poses. "I  promised  to  send  the  housekeeper  there  a 
basket  of  Eeine-Claudes  for  preserving,  and  Zdena  can 
take  them  with  her.  And,  Zdena,  you  might  stop  at 
Dobrotschau ;  I  will  leave  it  to  your  diplomatic  skill 
to  worm  out  the  grand  secret  for  us.  I  protest  against 
assisting  on  Sunday  at  its  solemn  revelation." 

"  Then  shall  I  refuse  the  invitation  for  you  ?" 

"  Yes ;  tell  them  that  we  expect  guests  ourselves  on 
Sunday.  And  invite  the  Komaritz  people  to  come  and 
dine,  that  it  may  be  true,"  the  major  calls  after  the 
girl. 

She  nods  with  a  smile,  and  trips  into  the  castle.  It 
is  easy  to  see  that  her  heart  is  light, 

"  Queer  little  coquette  1"  thinks  the  major,  adding  to 
himself,  "  But  she's  a  charming  creature,  for  all  that." 


150  "O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!" 

CHAPTER   VIII. 

THE  SECRET. 

AN  hour  later  Zdena,  a  huge  red  silk  sunshade  held 
over  her  handsome  head,  is  driving  rapidly  towards 
Dobrotsehau.  She  intends  to  make  peace  with  her 
cousin. 

The  exaggerated  attentions  which  he  paid  to  Paula 
vexed  her  for  the  moment,  but  now  she  remembers 
them  with  only  a  smile  of  contempt.  "  Poor  Harry  1" 
she  murmurs,  in  a  superior,  patronizing  way.  "  Poor 
Harry!  he  is  a  thoroughly  good  fellow,  and  so  do- 
voted  to  me  1" 

The  carriage  rolls  swiftly  along  the  smooth  road, 
upon  which  the  last  traces  of  a  recent  shower  are  fast 
fading  beneath  the  August  heat.  The  sky  is  blue  and 
cloudless.  The  sun  is  rising  higher ;  the  stubble-fields 
to  the  right  and  left  lie  basking  in  its  light;  the 
shadows  of  the  trees  grow  shorter  and  blacker,  and 
the  dark  masses  of  the  distant  forests  stand  out  in 
strong  contrast  with  the  sunny  fields. 

Avoiding  the  rough  forest  road,  the  coachman  takes 
the  longer  course  along  the  highway.  An  hour  and  a 
quarter  passes  before  Zdena  drives  through  an  arched 
gate-way,  surmounted  by  a  crest  carved  in  the  stone, 
into  a  picturesque  court-yard,  where  between  two  very 
ancient  lindens  stands  a  Saint  John  of  Nepomuk,  whose 
cross  has  fallen  out  of  his  marble  arms,  and  at  whose 


"O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  151 

feet  an  antique  fountain,  plashing  dreamily,  tells  of 
long-gone  times, — times  that  possess  no  interest  for 
the  present  inmates  of  the  castle. 

Zdena  does  not  waste  a  glance  upon  the  picturesque 
beauty  of  her  surroundings.  Two  riding-horses,  very 
much  heated,  and  led  up  and  down  the  old-fashioned 
court-yard,  at  once  engage  her  attention.  Are  those 
not  Harry's  horses?  What  is  Harry  doing  here?  A 
slight  sensation  of  anxiety  assails  her.  Then  she 
smiles  at  her  nonsensical  suspicions,  and  is  glad  that 
she  shall  thus  meet  Harry  sooner  than  she  had  hoped. 

A  footman  in  a  plain  and  tasteful  livery  hurries  for- 
ward to  open  her  carriage  door;  the  ladies  are  at  home. 

Zdena  trips  up  the  steps  to  the  spacious,  airy  hall, 
where,  among  antique,  heavy-carved  furniture,  a  couple 
of  full  suits  of  armour  are  set  up,  sword  in  gauntlet, 
like  a  spellbound  bit  of  the  Middle  Ages,  on  either  side 
of  a  tall  clock,  upon  whose  brass  face  the  effigy  of  a 
grinning  Death — his  scythe  over  his  shoulder — cele- 
brates his  eternal,  monotonous  triumph.  On  the  walls 
hang  various  portraits,  dim  with  age,  of  the  ancestors 
of  the  late  possessor,  some  clad  in  armour,  some  with 
full-bottomed  wigs,  and  others  again  wearing  powdered 
queues;  with  ladies  in  patch  and  powder,  narrow- 
breasted  gowns,  and  huge  stiff  ruffs. 

"  If  these  worthies  could  suddenly  come  to  life,  how 
amazed  they  would  be!"  thinks  Zdena.  She  has  no 
more  time,  however,  for  profound  reflections ;  for  from 
one  of  the  high  oaken  doors,  opening  out  of  the  hall, 
comes  Harry. 

They  both  start  at  this  unexpected  encounter;  he 


152  "0  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!" 

grows  deadly  pale,  she  flushes  crimson.  But  she  regains 
her  self-possession  sooner  than  he  can  collect  himself, 
and  while  he,  unable  to  utter  a  word,  turns  his  head 
aside,  she  approaches  him,  and,  laying  her  hand  gently 
upon  his  arm,  murmurs,  in  a  voice  sweet  as  honey, 
"  Harry !" 

He  turns  and  looks  at  her.  How  charming  she  ifl ! 
With  the  arch  condescension  of  a  princess  certain  of 
victory,  she  laughs  in  his  face  and  whispers, — 

"Are  you  not  beginning  to  be  sorry  that  you  said 
such  hateful  things  to  me  the  other  day  ?" 

He  has  grown  paler  still ;  his  eyes  alone  seem  blazing 
in  his  head.  For  a  while  he  leaves  her  question  un- 
answered, devouring  her  lovely,  laughing  face  with 
his  gaze;  then,  suddenly  seizing  her  almost  roughly 
by  both  wrists,  he  exclaims, — 

"  And  are  you  not  beginning  to  be  sorry  that  you 
gave  me  cause  to  do  so  ?" 

At  this  question,  imprudent  as  it  is,  considering 
the  circumstances,  Zdena  hangs  her  golden  head,  and 
whispers,  very  softly,  "  Yes." 

It  is  cold  and  gloomy  in  the  hall ;  the  two  suits  of 
armour  cast  long  dark-gray  shadows  upon  the  black- 
and-white-tiled  floor ;  two  huge  bluebottle  flies  are  buzz- 
ing on  the  frame  of  an  old  portrait,  and  a  large  moth 
with  transparent  wings  and  a  velvet  body  is  bumping 
its  head  against  the  ceiling,  whether  for  amusement 
or  in  despair  it  is  impossible  to  say. 

Zdena  trembles  all  over;  she  knows  that  she  has 
said  something  conclusive,  something  that  she  cannot 
recall.  She  is  conscious  of  having  performed  a  difficult 


"O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  153 

task,  and  she  expects  her  reward.  Something  very 
sweet,  something  most  delicious,  is  at  hand.  He  must 
clasp  her  in  his  arms,  as  on  that  evening  in  Vienna. 
Ah,  it  is  useless  to  try  to  deceive  herself, — she  cannot 
live  without  him.  But  he  stands  as  if  turned  to  stone, 
ashy  pale,  with  a  look  of  horror. 

A  door  opens.  Paula  Harfink  enters  the  hall,  tall, 
portly,  handsome  after  her  fashion,  in  a  flowered  Pom- 
padour gown,  evidently  equipped  for  a  walk,  wearing 
a  pair  of  buckskin  gloves  and  a  garden-hat  trimmed 
with  red  poppies  and  yellow  gauze. 

"Ah I  have  you  been  waiting  for  me  up-stairs, 
Harry?"  she  asks;  then,  perceiving  Zdena,  she  adds, 
"A  visitor! — a  welcome  visitor!" 

To  Zdena's  amazement  and  terror,  she  finds  herself 
tenderly  embraced  by  Paula,  who,  looking  archly  from 
one  to  the  other  of  the  cousins,  asks,  "  Shall  we  wait 
until  Sunday  for  the  grand  surprise,  Harry  ?  Let  your 
cousin  guess.  Come,  Baroness  Zdena,  what  is  the  news 
at  Dobrotschau  ?" 

For  one  moment  Zdena  feels  as  if  a  dagger  were 
plunged  into  her  heart  and  turned  around  in  the 
wound ;  then  she  recovers  her  composure  and  smiles, 
a  little  contemptuously,  perhaps  even  haughtily,  but 
naturally  and  with  grace. 

"Oh,  it  is  not  very  difficult  to  guess,"  she  says. 
"  What  is  the  news  ?  Why,  a  betrothal.  You  have 
my  best  wishes,  Baroness;  and  you  too,  Harry, — I 
wish  you  every  happiness  1" 


154  "O  THOU,  MF  AUSTRIA!" 

CHAPTER   IX. 

AN   ENCOUNTER. 

No  one  can  bear  pain  with  such  heroic  equanimity 
as  can  a  woman  when  her  pride  or  her  sense  of  dig- 
nity is  aroused.  Full  twenty  minutes  have  elapsed 
since  the  light  has  been  darkened  in  Zdena's  sky,  her 
thought  of  the  future  embittered,  and  every  joy  blotted 
out  of  her  existence.  During  these  twenty  minutes 
she  has  talked  and  laughed ;  has  walked  in  the  park 
with  Paula  and  Harry;  has  pointed  out  to  the  be- 
trothed couple  the  comically  human  physiognomy  of  a 
large  pansy  in  a  flower-bed ;  has  looked  on  while  Paula, 
plucking  a  marguerite,  proceeds,  with  an  arch  look  at 
Harry,  to  consult  that  old-fashioned  oracle,  picking  off 
the  petals  one  by  one,  with,  "He  loves  me,  he  loves 
me  not."  Yes,  when  urged  to  partake  of  some  refresh- 
ment, she  has  even  delicately  pared  and  cut  up  with  a 
silver  knife  a  large  peach,  although  she  could  not 
swallow  a  mouthful  of  it.  How  could  she,  when  she 
felt  as  if  an  iron  hand  were  throttling  herl 

And  now  she  is  in  the  carriage  again,  driving  to- 
wards home.  As  she  drove  off  she  had  a  last  glimpse 
of  Paula  and  Harry  standing  side  by  side  in  the 
picturesque  court-yard  before  the  castle,  beside  the 
fountain,  that  vies  with  the  lindens  in  murmuring  its 
old  tales, — tales  that  no  longer  interest  any  one.  They 
stood  there  together, — Paula  waving  her  hand  and 


"0  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  155 

calling  parting  words  after  the  visitor ;  Harry  stiff  and 
mute,  lifting  his  cap.  Then  Paula  put  her  hand  upon 
his  arm  to  go  back  into  the  castle  with  him, — him,  her 
lover,  her  property  I 

And  Zdena  is  alone  at  last.  The  pain  in  her  heart 
is  becoming  torture.  Her  breath  comes  short  and 
quick.  At  the  same  time  she  has  the  restless,  impa- 
tient sensation  which  is  experienced  by  all  who  are 
unaccustomed  to  painful  emotion,  before  they  can 
bring  themselves  to  believe  in  the  new  and  terrible 
trouble  in  which  they  find  themselves, — a  sensation 
of  being  called  upon  to  shake  off  some  burden  un- 
justly imposed.  But  the  burden  can  neither  be 
shifted  nor  shaken  off. 

Her  consciousness  is  the  burden,  the  burden  of 
which  she  cannot  be  rid  except  with  life  itself.  Life, 
— it  has  often  seemed  to  her  too  short ;  and,  in  spite  of 
all  her  transitory  girlish  discontent,  she  has  sometimes 
railed  at  fate  for  according  to  mankind  so  few  years 
in  which  to  enjoy  this  lovely,  sunny,  laughing  world. 
But  now  her  brief  earthly  future  stretches  out  end- 
lessly before  her, — an  eternity  in  which  joy  is  dead 
and  everything  black  and  gloomy. 

"  Good  God !  will  this  torture  last  forever  ?"  she  asks 
herself.  No,  it  is  not  possible  that  such  pain  can  last 
long:  she  will  forget  it,  she  must!  It  seems  to  her 
that  she  can  at  least  be  rid  of  some  of  it  if  she  can 
only  weep  her  fill  in  solitude.  Yes,  she  must  cry  it 
out  before  she  goes  back  to  Zirkow,  before  she  meets 
again  the  keen,  kindly  eyes  that  would  fain  pry  into 
her  very  soul. 


156  "  0  THO  U,  MY  A  USTRIA  /" 

Meanwhile,  she  has  told  the  coachman  to  drive  to 
Komaritz.  The  carriage  rolls  through  the  long  vil- 
lage. The  air  tastes  of  straw  and  hay ;  the  rhythmic 
beat  of  the  thrashers'  flails  resounds  from  the  peasants' 
email  barns.  Zdena  stops  her  ears;  she  cannot  bear 
the  noise, — the  noise  and  the  garish,  cruel  light.  At 
last  the  village  lies  behind  her.  The  sound  of  flails  is 
still  heard  in  the  distance ;  to  Zdena  they  seem  to  be 
beating  the  summer  to  death  with  clubs. 

The  carriage  drives  on,  drives  towards  the  forest. 
On  the  edge  of  the  wood  stands  a  red-and-white  sign- 
post, the  two  indexes  of  which  point  in  opposite  di- 
rections through  the  depths  of  the  leafy  thicket :  one 
pathway  is  tolerably  smooth,  and  leads  to  Komaritz ; 
the  other,  starting  from  the  same  point,  is  rough,  and 
leads  to  Zirkow. 

She  calls  to  the  coachman.    He  stops  the  horses. 

"  Drive  on  to  Komaritz  and  leave  the  plums  there," 
she  orders  him,  "  and  I  will  meanwhile  take  the  short 
path  and  walk  home."  So  saying,  she  descends  from 
the  vehicle. 

He  sees  her  walk  off  quickly  and  with  energy ;  sees 
her  tall,  graceful  figure  gradually  diminish  in  the  per- 
spective of  the  Zirkow  woodland  path.  For  a  while 
he  gazes  after  her,  surprised,  and  then  he  obeys  her 
directions. 

If  Krupitschka  had  been  upon  the  box  he  would 
have  opposed  his  young  mistress's  order  as  surely  as 
he  would  have  disobeyed  it  obstinately.  He  would 
have  said,  "  The  Baroness  does  not  understand  that  so 
young  a  lady  ought  not  to  go  alone  through  the  forest 


"0  THOU,  MF  AUSTRIA  I"  157 

the  Herr  Baron  would  be  very  angry  with  me  if  I 
allowed  it,  and  I  will  not  allow  it." 

But  Schmidt  is  a  new  coachman.  He  does  as  he  is 
bidden,  making  no  objection. 

Zdena  plunges  into  the  wood,  penetrates  deeper  and 
deeper  into  the  thicket,  aimlessly,  heedlessly,  except 
that  she  longs  to  find  a  spot  where  she  can  hide  her 
despair  from  human  eyes.  She  does  not  wish  to  see 
the  heavens,  nor  the  sun,  nor  the  buzzing  insects  and 
wanton  butterflies  on  the  edge  of  the  forest. 

At  last  the  shade  is  deep  enough  for  her.  The 
dark  foliage  shuts  out  the  light;  scarcely  a  hand's- 
breadth  of  blue  sky  can  be  seen  among  the  branches 
overhead.  She  throws  herself  on  the  ground  and  sobs. 
After  a  while  she  raises  her  head,  sits  up,  and  stares 
into  space. 

"  How  is  it  possible  ?  How  could  it  have  happened  ?" 
she  thinks.  "  I  cannot  understand.  From  wayward- 
ness? from  anger  because  I  was  a  little  silly?  Oh, 
God!  oh,  God!  Yes,  I  take  pleasure  in  luxury,  in 
fine  clothes,  in  the  world,  in  attention.  I  really  thought 
for  the  moment  that  these  were  what  I  liked  best, — 
but  I  was  wrong.  How  little  should  I  care  for  those 
things,  without  him !  Oh,  God !  oh,  God !  How  could 
he  find  it  in  his  heart  to  do  it  I"  she  finally  exclaims, 
while  her  tears  flow  afresh  down  her  flushed  cheeks. 

Suddenly  she  hears  a  low  crackling  in  the  under- 
brush. She  starts  and  looks  up.  Before  her  stands  an 
elderly  man  of  medium  height,  with  a  carefully-shaven, 
sharp-cut  face,  and  a  reddish-gray  peruke.  His  tall 
ptove-pipe  hat  is  worn  far  back  on  his  head,  and  his 

14 


158  "  O  THOU,  M Y  A  USTRIA  I" 

odd-looking  costume  is  made  up  of  a  long  green  coat, 
the  tails  of  which  he  carries  under  his  left  arm,  a  pair 
of  wide,  baggy,  nankeen  trousers,  a  long  vest,  with 
buttons  much  too  large,  and  a  pair  of  clumsy  peasant 
shoes.  The  most  remarkable  thing  about  him  is  the 
sharp,  suspicious  expression  of  his  round,  projecting 
eyes. 

"What  do  you  want  of  me?"  stammers  Zdena, 
rising,  not  without  secret  terror. 

"I  should  like  to  know  what  you  are  crying  for. 
Perhaps  because  you  have  quarrelled  with  your  cousin 
Henry,"  he  says,  with  a  sneer. 

He  addresses  her  familiarly:  who  can  he  be?  Evi 
dently  some  one  of  unsound  mind ;  probably  old  Stud- 

necka  from  X ,  a  former  brewer,  who  writes  poems, 

and  who  sometimes  thinks  himself  the  prophet  Elisha, 
under  which  illusion  he  will  stop  people  in  the  road 
and  preach  to  them.  This  must  be  he.  She  has  heard 
that  so  long  as  his  fancies  are  humoured  he  is  perfectly 
gentle  and  harmless,  but  that  if  irritated  by  contradic- 
tion he  has  attacks  of  maniacal  fury,  and  has  been 
known  to  lay  violent  hands  upon  those  who  thus 
provoke  him. 

Before  she  finds  the  courage  to  answer  him,  ho  comes 
a  step  nearer  to  her,  and  repeats  his  question  with  a 
scornful  smile  which  discloses  a  double  row  of  faultless 
teeth. 

"How  do  you  know  that  I  have  a  cousin?"  asks 
Zdena,  still  more  alarmed,  and  recoiling  a  step  or  two. 

"  Oh,  I  know  everything,  just  as  the  gypsies  do." 

"Of  course  this  is  the  prophet,"  the  girl  thinks, 


"  0  THO  U,  MY  A  USTRIA  I"  159 

trembling.  She  longs  to  run  away,  but  tells  herself 
that  the  prudent  course  will  be  to  try  to  keep  him  in 
good  humour  until  she  has  regained  the  path  out  of 
this  thicket,  where  she  has  cut  herself  off  from  all 
human  aid.  "Do  you  know,  then,  who  I  am?"  she 
asks,  trying  to  smile. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  replies  this  strange  prophet,  nodding  his 
head.  "  I  have  long  known  you,  although  you  do  not 
know  me.  You  are  the  foolish  daughter  of  a  foolish 
father." 

"  How  should  he  have  any  knowledge  of  me  or  of 
my  family  ?"  she  reflects.  The  explanation  is  at  hand. 
She  remembers  distinctly  that  the  prophet  Studnecka 
was  one  of  the  eccentric  crowd  that  Baron  Franz 
Leskjewitsch  was  wont  to  assemble  about  him  for  his 
amusement  during  the  three  or  four  weeks  each  year 
when  the  old  man  made  the  country  around  unsafe  by 
his  stay  here. 

"You  know  my  grandfather  too,  then?"  she  con- 
tinues. 

"  Yes,  a  little,"  the  old  man  muttered.  "  Have  you 
any  message  to  send  him  ?  I  will  take  it  to  him  for 
you." 

"I  have  nothing  to  say  to  him! — I  do  not  know 
him!"  she  replies.  Her  eyes  flash  angrily,  and  she 
holds  her  head  erect. 

"  H'm  I  he  does  not  choose  to  know  you,"  the  old 
man  remarks,  looking  at  her  still  more  keenly. 

"  The  unwillingness  is  mutual.  I  have  not  the  least 
desire  to  know  anything  of  him,"  she  says,  with  em- 
phasis. 


160  "O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA  I" 

"Ah I — indeed!"  he  says,  with  a  lowering  glance 
from  beneath  his  shaggy  eyebrows.  "  Shall  I  tell  him 
so,  from  you  ?" 

"If  you  choose!"  she  replies.  Suddenly  an  idea 
strikes  her;  she  observes  him  in  her  turn  more  keenly 
than  hitherto, — his  face,  his  figure,  his  hands,  tanned 
and  neglected,  but  slender  and  shapely,  with  almond- 
shaped  nails.  There  is  something  familiar  in  his  fea- 
tures. 

Is  he  really  the  brewer  Studnecka,  the  fool  ?  And 
if  no  fool,  who  can  it  be  that  ventures  thus  to  address 
her  ?  Something  thrills  her  entire  frame.  A  portrait 
recurs  to  her  memory, — a  portrait  of  the  elder  Leskje- 
witsch,  which,  since  the  family  embroilment,  has  hung 
in  the  lumber-room  at  Zirkow.  There  is  not  a  doubt 
that  this  crazy  old  creature  is  her  grandfather. 

He  sees  that  she  has  recognized  him. 

Her  bearing  has  suddenly  become  haughty  and  re- 
pellent. She  adjusts  her  large  straw  hat,  which  has 
been  hanging  at  the  back  of  her  neck. 

"  Then  I  am  to  tell  him  from  you  that  you  do  not 
wish  to  have  anything  to  do  with  him  ?"  the  old  man 
asks  again. 

"  Yes."    Her  voice  is  hard  and  dull. 

"  And  besides,"  he  asks,  "  have  you  nothing  else  to 
say  to  him  ?"  He  looks  at  her  as  if  to  read  her  soul. 

She  returns  his  look  with  eyes  in  whose  brown  depths 
the  tears  so  lately  shed  are  still  glistening.  She  knows 
that  she  is  putting  the  knife  to  her  own  throat,  but 
what  matters  it?  The  gathered  bitterness  of  years 
overflows  her  heart  and  rises  to  her  lips. 


"O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA  I"  161 

"  And  besides," — she  speaks  slowly  and  provokingly, 
— "  besides,  I  should  like  to  tell  him  that  I  consider  his 
conduct  cold-hearted,  petty,  and  childish;  that  after 
he  has  tormented  to  death  two  people,  my  father  and 
my  mother,  he  might,  in  his  old  age,  attempt  by  love 
and  kindness  to  make  some  amends  for  his  wickedness, 
instead  of  going  on  weaving  fresh  misery  out  of  his 
wretched  hatred  and  obstinacy,  and — that  never  whilst 
I  live  will  I  make  one  advance  towards  him!"  She 
bows  slightly,  turns,  and  leaves  him.  He  looks  after 
her  graceful  figure  as  it  slowly  makes  its  way  among 
the  underbrush  and  is  finally  lost  to  sight. 

"A  splendid  creature!  What  a  carriage!  what  a 
figure!  and  what  a  bewitching  face!  No  wonder  she 
has  turned  the  brain  of  that  silly  lad  at  Komaritz. 
He  knows  what's  what.  The  child  shows  race,"  he 
mutters ;  "  she's  a  genuine  Leskjewitsch.  All  Fritz. — 
Poor  Fritz  1" 

The  old  man  passes  his  hand  across  his  forehead, 
and  then  gazes  after  her  once  more.  Is  that  her  blue 
dress  glimmering  among  the  trees  ?  No,  it  is  a  bit  of 
sky.  She  has  vanished. 

Zdena  manages  to  slip  up  to  her  own  room  unobserved 
when  she  reaches  Zirkow.  She  makes  her  first  appear- 
ance at  table,  her  hair  charmingly  arranged,  dressed 
as  carefully  as  usual,  talkative,  gay.  The  most  acute 
observer  would  hardly  suspect  that  a  few  hours  pre- 
viously she  had  all  but  cried  her  eyes  out. 

"And  did  you  bring  us  the  piece   of  news   from 
Dobrotschau  ?"  asks  Frau  Eosamunda  during  the  soup, 
which  Zdena  leaves  untasted. 
l  14* 


162  "0  THOU,  Mr  AUSTRIA!" 

"  Oh,  yes.  And  most  extraordinary  it  is,"  she  re- 
plies. "  Paula  Harfink  is  betrothed." 

"  To  whom  ?" 

"  To  Harry,"  says  Zdena,  without  the  quiver  of  an 
eyelash,  calmly  breaking  her  bread  in  two  as  she 
speaks. 

"  To  Harry  ?    Impossible !"  shouts  the  major. 

"  Not  at  all,"  Zdena  declares,  with  a  smile.  "  I  saw 
him  with  her.  She  already  calls  him  by  his  first  name." 

"  I  do  not  understand  the  world  nowadays,"  growls 
the  old  soldier,  adding,  under  his  breath,  "That  d — d 
driving  about  in  the  moonlight !" 

Frau  von  Leskjewitsch  and  her  cousin  Wenkendorf 
content  themselves  during  the  remainder  of  the  meal 
with  discussing  the  annoying  consequences  for  the 
family  from  such  a  connection,  partaking,  meanwhile, 
very  comfortably  of  the  excellent  dinner.  The  major 
glances  continually  at  his  niece.  It  troubles  him  to 
see  her  smile  so  perpetually.  Is  it  possible  that  she  is 
not  taking  the  matter  more  seriously  to  heart  ? 

After  dinner,  when  Frau  von  Leskjewitsch  has 
carried  her  cousin  off  to  the  greenhouse  to  show  him 
her  now  gloxinias,  the  major  chances  to  go  into  the 
drawing-room,  which  he  supposes  empty.  It  is  not  so. 
In  the  embrasure  of  a  window  stands  a  figure,  motion- 
less as  a  statue, — quite  unaware  of  the  approach  of 
any  one.  The  major's  heart  suffers  a  sharp  pang  at 
sight  of  that  lovely,  tender  profile,  the  features  drawn 
and  pinched  with  suppressed  anguish.  He  would  like 
to  go  up  to  his  darling, — to  take  her  in  his  arms.  But 
ho  does  not  dare  to  do  so.  How  can  one  bestow  caresses 


•'  O  THO  U,  MY  A  VSTRIA  /"  ]  63 

upon  a  creature  sore  and  crushed  in  every  limb  ?  He 
leaves  the  room  on  tiptoe,  as  one  leaves  the  room  of  an 
invalid  who  must  not  be  disturbed. 

"  God  have  mercy  on  the  poor  child !"  he  murmurs. 


CHAPTER   X 

A   GARRISON  TOWN. 

As  was  formerly  remarked  at  the  sale  of  the  effects 
of  Mademoiselle  Pauline  C ,  "Very  little  body- 
linen  and  very  many  diamonds,"  so  it  may  be  said  of 

the  population  of  X :  very  few  inhabitants,  but 

very  many  hussars. 

The  town  consists  of  a  barracks  and  a  Casino ;  the 
post-office,  church,  and  school-house,  as  well  as  all  the 
big  and  little  houses,  new  and  tasteless,  or  old  and  ruin- 
ous, are  merely  a  secondary  affair. 

The  ugly  square  barracks,  painted  red,  is  situated 
upon  what  is  called  "The  Ring,"  a  spacious,  uneven 
square,  unpaved  but  trodden  hard,  and,  besides,  cov- 
ered with  dust,  straw,  remains  of  bundles  of  hay,  and 
all  kinds  of  dirt  pertaining  to  a  stable. 

Opposite  the  barracks  is  the  Casino,  also  called 
"Hostinee  u  byle  ruze"  or  "The  White  Rose  Inn." 
The  barracks  stands  alone,  haughtily  exclusive.  Ad- 
joining the  Casino  and  the  post-office,  however,  are 
various  ugly  or  half-ruinous  structures,  and  opposite 


164  "O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!" 

the  post-office  there  is  a  line  of  unedifying  building*, 
describing  a  spacious  circle, — low  huts,  two-storied 
houses,  houses  with  mansard  roofs,  bouses  painted  yel- 
low, light  green,  or  light  pink,  with  a  saint  in  a  blue 
niche  over  the  front  door,  and  houses  with  creaking 
weathercocks  on  the  roof,  all  half  ruinous,  but  clinging 
affectionately  to  one  another,  like  drunken  recruits 
bent  upon  mutual  support. 

It  is  noon.  From  the  open  windows  of  the  most 
pretentious  of  these  houses  come  the  notes  of  a  waltz, 
with  a  loud  sound  of  shuffling  and  scraping,  alter- 
nating with  screaming  and  laughter.  The  story  goes 
that  the  wife  of  the  steward  of  the  Casino,  Frau  Al- 
bina  Schwanzara,  former  prima  ballerina  at  Troppau, 
is  teaching  the  cancan  behind  those  same  windows  to 
one  of  the  celebrities  of  the  little  town,  the  wife  of  a 
wealthy  tallow-chandler,  and  that  the  lady  in  question, 
for  the  entertainment  of  the  corps  of  officers  now 

stationed  at  X ,  is  to  dance  the  aforesaid  beautiful 

dance  at  the  next  "sociable,"  dressed  as  a  chimney- 
sweeper. "Fast  at  any  price!"  is  the  device  of  the 
celebrity.  The  lively  music  is  the  only  animate  cir- 
cumstance in  "  The  Ring ;"  the  sultry  August  heat  has 
stricken  dead  everything  else.  The  kellner  at  the 
door  of  the  Casino,  the  sentinel  at  the  gate  of  the  bar- 
racks, are  nodding  where  they  stand.  In  a  corner 
of  the  square  is  the  wagon  of  a  troupe  of  strolling 
players, — a  green-painted  house  on  wheels, — to  which 
is  harnessed  a  one-eyed  steed  with  very  long  legs  and  a 
tail  like  a  rat's.  The  prima  donna  of  the  troupe,  a 
slovenly  woman  in  shabby  dancing-slippers,  is  squat- 


"0  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  165 

ting  on  a  bundle  of  hay,  flirting  with  a  cavalry  ser- 
geant. A  lank  youth  with  long,  straight,  fair  hair  is 
thrashing  with  his  suspenders  a  pig  tied  at  the  back 
of  the  wagon,  while  he  holds  up  his  trousers  over  his 
stomach  with  his  left  hand.  Several  other  children  of 
Thespis  lie  stretched  out  snoring,  among  various  drums 
and  ropes,  in  the  dust. 

All  the  people  who  happen  to  be  in  the  square  stare 
at  them. 

The  universal  interest  is  shortly  diverted,  however, 
by  the  arrival  of  two  equipages  and  a  luggage-wagon, 
all  three  driving  down  a  side  street  to  rein  up  before 
the  post-office.  In  the  first  of  the  two  vehicles,  a  large 
convenient  landau,  two  ladies  are  seated  with  a  young 
man  opposite  them.  The  second  carriage  is  occupied 
by  a  valet  and  two  maids. 

They  have  come  from  the  nearest  railway-station, 
and  have  merely  stopped  at  the  post-office  for  any 
letters  and  papers  that  may  be  awaiting  them.  While 
the  servant  is  procuring  these  within  the  building,  the 
young  man  alights  from  the  landau  and  enters  into 
conversation  with  the  postmaster,  eagerly  inquiring 
what  regiment  is  at  present  in  garrison  at  X . 

The  curiosity  of  an  increasing  public  becomes  almost 
morbid.  All  crowd  around  the  post-office.  The  young 
actress  has  lost  her  admirer, — the  sergeant  has  rushed 
up  to  the  young  man. 

"  Oh,  Herr  Lieutenant !"  he  calls  out,  eagerly ;  then, 
ashamed  of  his  want  of  due  respect,  he  straightens 
himself  to  the  correct  attitude  and  salutes  with  his  hand 
at  his  cap.  Two  officers,  each  with  a  billiard-cue  in 


166  "  0  THOU,  MY  A  USTRIA  I" 

his  hand,  come  hastily  out  of  the  Casino,  followed  by 
a  third, — Harry  Leskjewitsch.  The  stranger  receives 
the  first  two  with  due  courtesy ;  Harry  he  scans  eagerly. 

"You  here,  Harry!"  he  exclaims,  going  up  to  him 
•with  outstretched  hands. 

The  lady  on  the  right  in  the  landau  lowers  the  red 
Bilk  parasol  with  which  she  has  hitherto  shielded  her 
face  from  public  curiosity,  and  takes  out  her  eye-glass ; 
the  other  leans  forward  a  little.  Both  ladies  are  in 
faultless  travelling-dress.  The  one  on  the  right  is  a 
beauty  in  her  way,  fair,  with  a  good  colour,  a  full  figure, 
and  regular  features,  although  they  may  be  a  trifle 
sharp.  Her  companion  is  beautiful,  too,  but  after  an 
entirely  different  style, — a  decided  brunette,  with  a 
pale  face  and  large  eyes  which,  once  gazed  into,  hold 
the  gazer  fast,  as  by  the  attraction  one  feels  to  solve 
a  riddle. 

"  Treurenberg  I"  Harry  exclaims,  grasping  the  stran- 
ger's hands  in  both  his  own. 

"I  thought  you  were  in  Vienna,"  Treurenberg  re- 
plies. "  I  cannot  tell  you  how  glad  I  am  to  see  you ! 
When  did  we  meet  last  ?" 

"  At  your  marriage,"  says  Harry. 

"  True  1  It  seems  an  eternity  since  then."  Treuren- 
berg sighs.  "Only  fancy,  I  had  to  shoot  my  'Old 
Tom1  last  winter !" 

At  this  moment  a  little  cavalcade  passes  across  the 
square  to  reach  the  barracks, — an  Amazon  in  a  tight, 
very  short  riding-dress,  followed  and  accompanied  by 
several  gentlemen. 

Treurenberg's  attention  is  attracted  by  the  horse- 


«0   THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  167 

woman,  who,  although  much  powdered,  rather  faded, 
and  with  a  feverish  glow  in  her  large,  dark  eyes,  shows 
traces  of  very  great  beauty. 

"  Is  not  that  Lori  Trauenstein  ?"  Lato  asks  his  new- 
found friend. 

"Yes, — now  Countess  Wodin,  wife  of  the  colonel  of 
the  regiment  of  hussars  in  garrison  here." 

"  An  old  flame  of  mine,"  Lato  murmurs.  "  Strange ! 
I  scarcely  recognjzed  her.  This  is  the  first  time  I 

have  seen  her  since "  he  laughs  lightly — "since 

she  gave  me  my  walking-ticket !  Is  "Wodin  the  same 
as  ever  ?" 

"  How  could  he  be  anything  else !" 

"  And  is  she  very  fast?" 

"  Yery,"  Harry  assents. 

The  ladies  in  the  landau  have  both  stretched  their 
necks  to  look  after  the  Amazon.  But  while  the  face 
of  the  blonde  expresses  merely  critical  curiosity,  in  her 
companion's  dark  eyes  there  is  sad,  even  horrified, 
surprise. 

The  Amazon  and  her  train  disappear  beneath  the 
arched  gate-way  of  the  barracks. 

"  Lato !"  the  portly  blonde  calls  to  Treurenberg  from 
the  landau. 

He  does  not  hear  her. 

"Do  you  remember  my  'Old  Tom'?"  he  asks  his 
friend,  returning  to  his  favourite  theme. 

"I  should  think  so.  A  chestnut, — a  magnificent 
creature  1" 

u  Magnificent  1  A  friend, — an  actual  friend.  That 
fat  Ehoden — a  cousin  of  my  wife's — broke  his  leg  in 


168  "0  THOU,  MF  AUSTRIA!" 

riding  him  at  a  hunt.  But,  to  speak  of  something 
pleasanter,  how  are  they  all  at  Komaritz?  Your 
cousin  must  be  very  pretty  by  this  time?"  And 
Treurenberg  looks  askance  at  his  friend. 

"Very,"  Harry  replies,  and  his  manner  suddenly 
grows  cold  and  constrained.  "  But  allow  me  to  speak 
to  your  wife,"  he  adds.  "By  the  way,  who  is  the 
young  lady  beside  her  ?" 

"  H'm !  a  relative, — a  cousin  of  my  wife's." 

"  Present  me,  I  pray,"  says  Harry. 

He  then  pays  his  respects  to  the  Countess  Treuren- 
berg and  to  her  companion,  whose  name  he  now  learns 
is  Olga  Dangeri. 

The  Countess  offers  him  her  finger-tips  with  a 
gracious  smile.  Olga  Dangeri,  nodding  slightly,  raises 
her  dark,  mysterious  eyes,  looks  him  full  in  the  face 
for  a  moment,  and  then  turns  away  indifferent.  The 
servant  comes  out  of  the  post-office  with  a  great  bundle 
of  letters,  which  the  Countess  receives  from  him,  and 
with  two  or  three  packages,  which  he  hands  over  to 
the  maids. 

"What  are  you  waiting  for,  Lato?  Get  in,"  the 
Countess  says. 

"  Drive  on.  I  shall  stay  here  with  Leskjewitsch  for 
a  while,"  Treurenberg  replies. 

"  Mamma  is  waiting  breakfast  for  us." 

"I  shall  breakfast  in  the  Casino.  My  respects  to 
your  mother." 

"As  you  please."  The  young  Countess  bows  to 
Harry  stiffly,  with  a  discontented  air,  the  horses  start, 
a  cloud  of  dust  rises,  and  the  landau  rolls  away.  With 


"O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  1C9 

his  eyes  half  closed,  Harry  looks  after  the  heavy  brown 
carriage-horses. 

"  Lato,  that  off  horse  is  spavined." 

"  For  heaven's  sake  don't  notice  it  I  My  mother-in- 
law  bought  the  pair  privately  to  surprise  me.  She 
paid  five  thousand  guilders  for  them." 

"  H'm  I     Who  persuaded  her  to  buy  them  ?" 

"Pistasch  Kamenz.  I  do  not  grudge  him  his  bar- 
gain," murmurs  Lato,  adding,  with  a  shake  of  the  head, 
"  "Tis  odd,  dogs  and  horses  are  the  only  things  in  which 
we  have  the  advantage  over  the  financiers." 

With  which  he  takes  his  friend's  arm  and  crosses  the 
square  to  the  Casino. 


CHAPTEK    XI. 

AN  OLD   FRIEND. 

THEY  are  sitting  in  the  farthest  corner  of  the  smoky 
dining-hall  of  the  Casino,  Harry  and  his  friend,  by  a 
window  that  looks  out  upon  a  little  yard.  Harry  is 
smoking  a  cigar,  and  sits  astride  of  a  chair ;  Lato  con- 
trives to  sprawl  over  three  chairs,  and  smokes  cigarettes, 
using  about  five  matches  to  each  cigarette.  Two  glasses, 
a  siphon,  and  a  bottle  of  cognac  stand  upon  a  rickety 
table  close  by. 

The  room  is  low,  the  ceiling  is  almost  black,  and  the 
atmosphere  suggests  old  cheese  and  stale  cigar-smoke. 
H  15 


170  "O  THOU,  MF  AUSTRIA!" 

Between  the  frames  of  their  Imperial  Majesties  a  fat 
spider  squats  in  a  large  gray  wob.  At  a  table  not  far 
from  the  two  friends  a  cadet,  too  thin  for  his  uniform, 
is  writing  a  letter,  while  a  lieutenant  opposite  him  is 
occupied  in  cutting  the  initials  of  his  latest  flame,  with 
his  English  penknife,  on  the  green-painted  table.  Be- 
fore a  Bohemian  glass  mirror  in  a  glass  frame  stands 
another  lieutenant,  with  a  thick  beard  and  a  bald  pate, 
which  last  he  is  endeavouring  artistically  to  conceal  by 
brushing  over  it  the  long  thick  hair  at  the  back  of  bis 
neck.  His  name  is  Spreil ;  he  has  lately  been  trans- 
ferred to  the  hussars  from  the  infantry,  and  he  is  tho 
butt  for  every  poor  jest  in  the  regiment. 

"  I  cannot  tell  you  how  glad  I  am  to  see  you,"  Treu- 
renberg  repeats  to  his  friend.  As  he  speaks,  his  ciga- 
rette goes  out;  he  scrapes  his  twenty-fourth  match  in 
the  last  quarter  of  an  hour,  and  breaks  off  its  head. 

"  The  same  old  lack  of  fire  I"  Harry  says,  by  way  of 
a  jest,  handing  him  his  lighted  cigar. 

"  Yes,  the  same  old  lack  of  fire  I"  Treurenberg  repeats. 

Lack  of  fire !  How  often  he  has  been  reproached 
with  it  as  a  boy !  Lack  of  fire ;  that  means  everything 
for  which  fire  stands, — energy,  steadfastness,  manly 
force  of  will.  There  is  no  lack  of  passion,  on  the  other 
hand ;  of  dangerous  inflammable  material  there  is  too 
much  in  his  nature ;  but  with  him  passion  paralyzes 
effort  instead  of  spurring  to  action.  One  need  only 
look  at  him  as  he  half  reclines  there,  smiling  dreamily 
to  himself,  scarcely  moving  bis  lips,  to  know  him  for 
what  he  is,  indolent,  impressionable,  yet  proud  and 
morbidly  refined  withal ;  a  thoroughly  passive  and  very 


"0  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  171 

sensitive  man.  He  is  half  a  head  taller  than  Harry, 
but  carries  himself  so  badly  that  he  looks  shorter ;  his 
face,  framed  in  light  brown  hair  and  a  soft  pointed 
beard,  is  sallow ;  his  large  gray  eyes  are  veiled  beneath 
thick  lids  which  he  rarely  opens  wide.  His  hands  are 
especially  peculiar,  long,  slender,  soft,  incapable  of  a 
quick  movement ;  hands  formed  to  caress,  but  not  to 
fight, — hardly  even  to  clasp  firmly. 

It  is  said  that  the  colonel  of  the  regiment  of  Uhlans, 
in  which  Lato  served  before  his  marriage  to  Selina 
Harfink,  once  declared  of  him,  "  Treurenberg  ought  to 
have  been  a  woman,  and  then,  married  to  a  good 
husband,  something  might  perhaps  have  been  made  of 
him." 

This  criticism,  which  ought  to  have  been  uttered 
by  a  woman  rather  than  by  a  logical,  conventional 
man,  went  the  round  of  Treurenberg's  comrades.  "The 
same  old  lack  of  fire,"  Lato  repeats,  smiling  to  him- 
self. He  has  the  mouth  and  the  smile  of  a  woman. 

Harry  knows  the  smile  well,  but  it  has  changed  since 
the  last  time  he  saw  it.  It  used  to  be  indolent,  now  it 
is  sad. 

"  Have  you  any  children  ?"  Harry  asks,  after  a  while. 

Treurenberg  shivers.  "I  had  a  boy, — I  lost  him 
when  he  was  fifteen  months  old,"  he  says,  in  a  low, 
strained  tone. 

"My  poor  fellow!  What  did  he  die  of?"  Harry 
asks,  sympathetically. 

"  Of  croup.  It  was  over  in  one  night, — and  he  was 
so  fresh  and  healthy  a  child !  My  God !  when  I  think 
of  the  plump  little  arms  he  used  to  stretch  out  to  me 


172  "  O  THOU,  MY  A  VSTRIA  /" 

from  his  little  bed  every  morning,"  Lato  goes  on, 
hoarsely,  "  and  then,  as  I  said,  in  a  few  hours — gone ! 
The  physician  did  all  that  he  could  for  the  poor  little 
fellow, — in  vain;  nothing  did  any  good.  I  knew  from 
the  first  that  there  was  no  hope.  How  the  poor  little 
chap  threw  himself  about  in  his  bedl  I  sometimes 
dream  that  I  hear  him  gasping  for  breath, — and  he 
clung  to  me  as  if  I  could  help  him!"  Treurenberg's 
voice  breaks ;  he  passes  his  hand  over  his  eyes.  "  He 
was  very  little ;  he  could  hardly  say  '  papa"  distinctly, 
but  it  goes  terribly  near  one's  heart  when  one  has 
nothing  else  in  the  world, — I — I  mean,  no  other  chil- 
dren," he  corrects  the  involuntary  confession. 

""Well,  all  days  have  not  yet  ended  in  evening," 
Harry  says,  kindly,  and  then  pauses  suddenly,  feeling 
— he  cannot  tell  why — that  he  has  made  a  mistake. 

Meanwhile,  the  lieutenant  at  the  table  has  finished 
his  initials,  and  has,  moreover,  embellished  them  with 
the  rather  crude  device  of  a  heart.  He  rises  and  saun- 
ters aimlessly  about  the  large,  low  room,  apparently 
seeking  some  subject  for  chaff,  for  boyish  play.  He 
kills  a  couple  of  flies,  performs  gymnastic  exercises 
upon  two  chairs,  and  finally  approaches  the  cadet, 
who,  ensconced  in  a  corner,  behind  a  table,  is  scrib- 
bling away  diligently. 

"  Whom  are  you  writing  to  ?"  he  asks,  sitting  astride 
of  a  chair  just  opposite  the  lad. 

The  cadet  is  silent. 

"  To  your  sweetheart  ?" 

The  cadet  is  still  silent. 

"I  seem  to  have  guessed  rightly,"  says  the  lieu- 


«O  THOU,  AIT  AUSTRIA!"  173 

tenant,  adding,  "  But  tell  me,  does  your  present  flame 
here — the  sun  called  Wodin — tolerate  a  rival  sun  ?" 

"I  am  writing  to  my  mother,"  the  cadet  says, 
angrily.  At  the  mention  of  the  name  of  Wodin  he 
flushes  to  the  roots  of  his  hair. 

"Indeed! — how  touching!"  the  lieutenant  goes  on. 
"What  are  you  writing  to  her?  Are  you  asking  her 
for  money?  or  are  you  soothing  her  anxiety  with  an 
account  of  the  solid  character  of  your  principles  ?  Do 
show  me  your  letter." 

The  cadet  spreads  his  arms  over  the  sheet  before 
him,  thereby  blotting  the  well-formed  characters  that 

cover  it.    "  I  tell  you  what,  Stein !"  he  bursts  forth 

at  his  tormentor,  his  voice  quivering  with  anger. 

Meanwhile,  Lato  turns  towards  him.  "Toni!"  he 
exclaims,  recognizing  a  relative  in  the  irate  young  fel- 
low,— "  Toni  Flammingen ! — can  it  be  ?  The  last  time 
I  saw  you,  you  were  in  your  public-school  uniform. 
You've  grown  since  then,  my  boy." 

Stein  turns  away  from  this  touching  family  scene, 
and,  taking  his  place  behind  Lieutenant  Spreil,  who  is 
still  occupied  in  dressing  his  hair,  observes,  in  a  tone 
of  great  gravity, — 

"  Don't  you  think,  Spreil,  that  you  could  make  part 
of  your  thick  beard  useful  in  decorating  that  bald 
head  of  yours  ?  Comb  it  up  each  side  and  confine  it  in 
place  with  a  little  sticking-plaster.  It  might  do." 

Spreil  turns  upon  him  in  a  fury.  "  It  might  do  for 
me  to  send  you  a  challenge !"  he  thunders. 

"  By  all  means :  a  little  extra  amusement  would  be 
welcome  just  now,"  Stein  retorts,  carelessly. 

15* 


174  "O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!" 

Spreil  bows,  and  leaves  the  room  with  majesty. 

"For  heaven's  sake,  Stein,  what  are  you  about?" 
Harry,  who  has  been  observing  the  scene,  asks  the 
idle  lieutenant. 

"I  have  made  a  vow  to  rid  our  regiment  of  the 
fellow, — to  chaff  him  out  of  it,"  Stein  replies,  with  the 
sublime  composure  which  results  from  the  certainty 
of  being  in  the  right.  "  We  do  not  want  the  infantry 
cad.  If  he  is  determined  to  mount  on  horseback,  let 
him  try  a  velocipede,  or  sit  astride  of  Pegasus,  for  all 
I  care  j  but  in  our  regiment  he  shall  not  stay.  You'll 
be  my  second,  Les  ?" 

"  Of  course,  if  you  insist  upon  it,"  Harry  replies ; 
"  but  it  goes  against  the  grain.  I  detest  this  perpetual 
duelling  for  nothing  at  all.  It  is  bad  form." 

"  You  need  not  talk ;  you  used  to  be  the  readiest  in 
the  regiment  to  fight.  I  remember  you  when  I  was  in 
the  dragoons.  But  a  betrothed  man  must,  of  course, 
change  his  views  upon  such  subjects." 

At  the  word  "betrothed"  Harry  shrinks  involun- 
tarily. Treurenberg  looks  up. 

"  Betrothed !"  he  exclaims.     "  And  to  whom  ?" 

"  Guess,"  says  the  lieutenant,  who  is  an  old  acquaint- 
ance of  Treurenberg's. 

"It  is  not  hard  to  guess.  To  your  charming  little 
cousin  Zdena." 

The  lieutenant  puckers  his  lips  as  if  about  to  whistle, 
and  says,  "  Not  exactly.  Guess  again." 

Meanwhile,  Harry  stands  like  a  man  in  the  pillory 
who  is  waiting  for  a  shower  of  stones,  and  says  not  a 
word. 


«O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!'1  175 

"Then — then — "  Treurenberg  looks  from  the  lieu- 
tenant to  his  friend,  "  I  have  no  idea,"  he  murmurs. 

"  To  the  Baroness  Paula  Harfink,"  says  the  lieuten- 
ant, his  face  devoid  of  all  expression. 

There  is  a  pause.  Treurenberg's  eyes  try  in  vain  to 
meet  those  of  his  friend. 

From  without  come  the  clatter  of  spurs  and  the 
drone  of  a  hand-organ  grinding  out  some  popular  air. 

"  Is  it  true  ?"  asks  Treurenberg,  who  cannot  rid  him- 
self of  the  idea  that  the  mischievous  lieutenant  is 
jesting.  And  Harry  replies,  as  calmly  as  possible, — 

"  It  is  not  yet  announced.  I  am  still  awaiting  my 
father's  consent.  He  is  abroad." 

"Ah!" 

The  lieutenant  pours  out  a  thimbleful  of  brandy 
from  the  flask  on  the  table,  mixes  it  with  seltzer-water 
and  sugar,  and,  raising  it  to  his  lips,  says,  gravely,  "To 
the  health  of  your  betrothed,  Leskjewitsch, — of  your 
sister-in-law,  Treurenberg." 

"  This,  then,  was  the  news  of  which  my  mother-in- 
law  made  such  mysterious  mention  in  her  last  letters," 
Lato  murmurs.  "This  is  the  surprise  of  which  she 
spoke.  I — I  hope  it  will  turn  out  well,"  he  adds,  with 
a  sigh. 

Harry  tries  to  smile.  From  the  adjoining  billiard- 
room  come  the  voices  of  two  players  in  an  eager  dis- 
pute. The  malicious  lieutenant  pricks  up  his  ears,  and 
departs  for  the  scene  of  action  with  the  evident  in- 
tention of  egging  on  the  combatants. 

"  Lato,"  Harry  asks,  clearing  his  throat,  "  how  do 
you  mean  to  get  home  ?  I  have  my  drag  hero,  and  I 


176  "O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!" 

can  drop  you  at  Dobrotschau.  Or  will  you  drive  to 
Komaritz  with  me  ?" 

"  With  the  greatest  pleasure,"  Treurenberg  assents. 
"  How  glad  I  shall  be  to  see  the  old  place  again !" 

He  is  just  making  ready  for  departure,  when  several 
officers  drop  in  at  the  Casino,  almost  all  of  them  old 
friends  of  his.  They  surround  him,  shake  hands  with 
him,  and  will  not  let  him  go. 

"  Can  you  wait  a  quarter  of  an  hour  for  me  ?"  he 
asks  his  friend. 

Harry  nods.  He  takes  no  part  in  the  general  con- 
versation. He  scarcely  moves  his  eyes  from  the  spider- 
web  between  the  Imperial  portraits.  A  fly  is  caught 
in  it  and  is  making  desperate  efforts  to  escape.  The 
bloated  spider  goes  on  spinning  its  web,  and  pretends 
not  to  see  it. 

"  Have  a  game  of  bezique  ?  You  used  to  be  so  pas- 
sionately fond  of  bezique,"  Harry  hears  some  one  say. 
He  looks  around.  It  is  Count  Wodin,  the  husband  of 
the  pretty,  coquettish  horsewoman,  who  is  speaking. 
Lato  turns  to  Harry. 

"  Can  you  wait  for  me  long  enough  ?"  he  asks,  and 
his  voice  sounds  uncertain  and  confused.  "  One  short 
game." 

Harry  shrugs  his  shoulders,  as  if  to  say,  "As  you 
please."  Then,  standing  with  one  knee  on  a  chair  in 
the  attitude  of  a  man  who  is  about  to  take  leave  and 
does  not  think  it  worth  while  to  sit  down  again,  he 
looks  on  at  the  game. 

The  first  game  ends,  then  another,  and  another,  and 
Treuronberg  makes  no  move  to  lay  the  cards  aside. 


«O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  177 

His  face  has  changed :  the  languid  smile  has  gone,  his 
eyes  are  eager,  watchful,  and  his  face  is  a  perfectly 
expressionless  mask.  His  is  the  typical  look  of  the 
well-bred  gambler  who  knows  how  to  conceal  his  agi- 
tation. 

"  Cent  d'as — double  bezique  I"  Thus  it  goes  on  to 
the  accompaniment  of  the  rustle  of  the  cards,  the 
rattle  of  the  counters,  and  from  the  adjoining  room 
the  crack  of  the  ivory  balls  against  one  another  as  they 
roll  over  the  green  cloth. 

"  "Well,  Lato,  are  you  coming  ?"  asks  Harry,  growing 
impatient. 

"  Only  two  games  more.  Can  you  not  wait  half  an 
hour  longer  ?"  asks  Treurenberg. 

"  To  speak  frankly,  I  am  not  much  interested  in  lis- 
tening to  your  '  Two  hundred  and  fifty,' — '  five  hun- 
dred,'— and  so  on." 

"  Naturally,"  says  Lato,  with  his  embarrassed  smile. 
He  moves  as  if  to  rise.  "VVodin  hands  him  the  cards  to 
cut.  "  Go  without  me.  I  will  not  keep  you  any  longer. 
Some  one  here  will  lend  me  a  horse  by  and  by.  Shall 
we  see  you  to-morrow  at  Dobrotschau  ?"  With  which 
Treurenberg  arranges  his  twelve  cards,  and  Harry  nods 
and  departs. 

"Tell  me,  did  you  ever  see  a  more  blissful  lover?" 
asks  the  teasing  lieutenant,  who  has  just  returned  from 
the  billiard-room.  As  the  disputants,  in  spite  of  all  his 
efforts  to  the  contrary,  have  made  up  their  quarrel, 
there  is  nothing  more  for  him  to  do  there.  "  He  seems 
inspired  indeed  at  the  thought  of  bis  beloved."  And 
he  takes  a  seat  on  the  table  nearest  the  players. 


178  "O   THOU,  MF  AUSTRIA!" 

"  Every  point  in  trumps,"  says  Treurenberg,  intent 
upon  his  game. 

"  It  is  my  impression  that  he  would  like  to  drink  her 
health  in  aconite,"  the  lieutenant  continues. 

"  That  betrothal  seems  to  me  a  most  mysterious  af- 
fair," mutters  Wodin.  "  I  do  not  understand  Leskje- 
witsch :  he  was  not  even  in  debt." 

The  lieutenant  bites  his  lip,  makes  a  private  sign  to 
NVodin,  and  takes  pains  not  to  look  at  Treurcnberg. 

Lato  flushes,  and  is  absorbed  in  polishing  his  eye- 
glass, which  has  slipped  out  of  his  eye. 

"  I  lose  three  thousand,"  he  says,  slowly,  consulting 
his  tablets.  "  Shall  we  have  another  game,  Wodin  ?" 


CHAPTER    XII. 

A   GRAVEYARD   IN   PARIS. 

PARIS,  in  the  middle  of  August. 

At  about  five  in  the  afternoon,  an  old  gentleman  in 
a  greenish-black  overcoat  that  flutters  about  his  thick- 
set figure  almost  like  a  soutane,  trousers  that  are  too 
short,  low  shoes  with  steel  buckles,  and  an  old-fashioned 
hi^h  hat  beneath  which  can  be  seen  a  rusty  brown 
wig,  issues  from  a  quiet  hotel  much  frequented  by 
strangers  of  rank. 

His  features  are  marked  and  strong.  His  brown  skin 
reminds  one  of  walnut-shells  or  crumpled  parchment. 


"O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  179 

Beneath  his  bushy  eyebrows  his  prominent  eyes  glance 
suspiciously  about  him.  It  would  be  difficult  to  guess 
at  this  man's  social  position  from  his  exterior.  To  the 
superficial  observer  he  might  suggest  the  peasant  class. 
The  ease,  however,  with  which  he  bears  himself  among 
the  fashionably-dressed  men  in  the  street,  the  despotic 
abruptness  of  his  manner,  the  irritability  with  which 
he  disputes  some  petty  item  in  his  hotel  bill,  while  he 
is  not  at  all  dismayed  by  the  large  sum  total,  give  the 
kellner,  who  stands  in  the  door-way  looking  after  him, 
occasion  for  reflection. 

"  He's  another  of  those  miserly  old  aristocrats  who 
suppress  their  title  for  fear  of  being  plundered,"  he 
decides,  with  a  shrug,  as  he  turns  back  into  the  hotel, 
stopping  on  his  way  to  inform  the  concierge  that,  in  his 
opinion,  the  old  man  is  some  half-barbaric  Russian 
prince  who  has  come  to  Europe  to  have  a  look  at 
civilization. 

The  name  in  the  strangers'  book  is  simply  Franz 
Leskjewitsch. 

Meanwhile,  the  stranger  has  walked  on  through  the 
Rue  de  Rivoli  to  the  corner  of  the  Rue  Castiglione, 
where  he  pauses,  beckons  to  a  fiacre,  and,  as  he  puts 
his  foot  heavily  and  awkwardly  upon  its  step,  calls  to 
the  driver,  "Cimetiere  Montmartre  I" 

The  vehicle  starts.  The  old  man's  eyes  peer  about 
sharply  from  the  window.  How  changed  it  all  is  since 
he  was  last  in  this  Babylon,  twenty-two  years  ago, 
while  the  Imperial  court  was  in  its  splendour,  and  Fritz 
was  still  alive  I 

"  Yes,  yes,  it  is  all  different, — radically  different,"  he 


180  "O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!" 

murmurs,  angrily.  "  The  noise  is  the  same,  but  tho 
splondour  has  vanished.  Paris  without  the  Empire  is 
like  Baden-Baden  without  the  gaming-tables.  Ah,  how 
fine  it  was  twenty-two  years  ago,  when  Fritz  was 
living !" 

Yes,  he  was  not  only  living,  but  until  then  he  had 
never  been  anything  but  a  source  of  pleasure  to  his 
father;  the  same  Fritz  who  had  afterwards  so  em- 
bittered life  for  him  that  the  same  father  had  stricken 
him  from  his  heart  and  had  refused  him  even  a  place 
in  his  memory.  But  it  is  dangerous  to  try  to  rid 
ourselves  of  the  remembrance  of  one  whom  we  have 
once  loved  idolatrously.  We  may,  for  fear  of  suc- 
cumbing to  the  old  affection,  close  our  hearts  and 
lock  them  fast  against  all  feeling  of  any  kind.  But  if 
they  do  not  actually  die  in  our  breasts,  there  will, 
sooner  or  later,  come  a  day  when  memory  will  reach 
them  in  spite  of  our  locks,  and  will  demand  for  the 
dead  that  tribute  of  tears  which  we  have  refused  to 
grant. 

There  are  few  things  more  ghastly  in  life  than  tears 
shed  for  the  dead  twenty  years  too  late. 

"Yes,  a  frivolous  fellow,  Fritz  was, — frivolous  and 
obstinate,"  the  old  man  says  to  himself,  staring  at  the 
brilliant  shop-windows  in  the  Eue  de  la  Paix  and  at 
the  gilded  youths  sauntering  past  them;  "but  when 
was  there  ever  a  man  his  equal  ?  What  a  handsome, 
elegant,  charming  fellow,  bubbling  over  with  merri- 
ment and  good  humour  and  chivalric  generosity  I  And 
the  fellow  insisted  on  marrying  a  shop-girl !''  he  mut- 
ters, between  his  teeth.  The  thought  even  now  throws 


«O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA  I"  181 

him  into  a  fury.  He  had  been  so  proud  of  the  lad, 
and  then — in  one  moment  it  was  all  over;  no  future  to 
look  to,  the  young  diplomat's  career  cut  short,  the 
family  pride  levelled  in  the  dust. 

The  old  rage  had  well-nigh  filled  his  soul,  when  a 
lovely,  pallid  face  rises  upon  his  memory.  Could 
Manetto  Duval  have  really  been  as  charming  as  that 
golden-haired  girl  he  had  met  awhile  ago  in  the 
woods?  The  little  witch  looked  as  like  Fritz  as  a 
delicate  girl  can  look  like  a  bearded  man,  and  she  had, 
withal,  a  foreign  grace,  the  like  of  which  had  never 
hitherto  characterized  any  Leskjewitsch  child,  and 
which  might  perhaps  be  an  inheritance  from  her 
Parisian  mother. 

And  suddenly  the  father's  conscience,  silenced 
through  all  these  long  years,  asserts  itself.  Yes,  the 
marriage  had  been  a  folly,  and  Fritz  had  ruined  his 
career  by  it.  But  suppose  Fritz  had,  through  his  own 
fault,  broken  both  his  arms,  or  put  out  his  eyes,  or 
done  anything  else  that  would  have  destroyed  his 
future,  would  it  have  been  for  his  father  to  turn  from 
him,  reproaching  him  angrily  for  his  folly,  saying, 
"  You  have  annihilated  your  happiness  by  your  own 
fault ;  you  have  blasted  the  hopes  I  had  for  you ; 
henceforth  be  as  wretched  as  you  deserve  to  be;  I 
will  have  none  of  you,  since  I  can  no  longer  be  proud 
of  you!" 

The  old  man  bites  his  lip  and  hangs  his  head. 
The  carriage  rolls  on.     The  weather  is  excessively 
warm.     In  front  of  the  shabby  cafes  on  the  Boulevard 
Clichy  some   people  are  sitting,  brown  and  languid. 

16 


182  "O  THO U,  MF  AUSTRIA!" 

Behind  the  dusty  windows  of  the  shops  the  shopgirls 
stand  gazing  drearily  out  upon  their  weary  world,  as 
if  longing  for  somewhat  of  which  they  have  read  or 
dreamed, — something  fresh  and  green ;  long  shadows 
upon  moist,  fragrant  lawns;  gurgling  brooks  mirror- 
ing the  sun. 

An  emotion  of  compassion  stirs  in  the  old  man's 
breast  at  sight  of  these  "prisoners,"  and  if  one  by 
chance  seems  to  him  prettier,  paler,  sadder  than  the 
rest,  he  asks  himself,  "Did  she  perhaps  look  so?  No 
wonder  Fritz  pitied  the  poor  creature!  he  had  such 
a  warm,  tender  heart !" 

The  fiacre  stops ;  the  old  man  rubs  his  eyes.  "  How 
much  ?"  he  asks  the  driver. 

The  man  scans  his  fare  from  head  to  foot  with  a 
knowing  glance : 

"  Five  francs." 

Baron  Leskjewitsch  takes  four  francs  from  the  left 
pocket  of  his  waistcoat,  and  from  the  right  pocket 
of  his  trousers,  where  he  keeps  his  small  change,  one 
sou,  as  a  gratuity.  These  he  gives  to  the  driver,  and 
sternly  dismisses  him.  The  man  drives  off  with  a  grin. 

"  The  old  miser  thinks  he  has  made  a  good  bargain," 
he  mutters. 

The  'miser'  meanwhile  paces  slowly  along  the  broad, 
straight  path  of  the  cemetery,  between  the  tall  chest- 
nuts planted  on  either  side. 

How  dreary,  how  desolate  a  church-yard  this  is, 
upon  which  the  noise  and  bustle  of  the  swarming  city 
outside  its  gates  clamorously  intrude ! — a  church-yard 
where  the  dead  are  thrust  away  as  troublesome  rub- 


»O  TIIO U,  MF  AUSTRIA!"  183 

bish,  only  to  put  them  where  they  can  be  forgotten. 
It  is  all  BO  bare  and  prosaic ;  the  flat  stones  lie  upon 
the  graves  as  if  there  was  a  fear  lest,  if  not  held  down 
in  such  brutal  fashion,  the  wretched  dead  would  rise 
and  return  to  a  world  where  there  is  no  longer  any 
place  for  them,  and  where  interests  hold  sway  in 
which  they  have  no  part.  Urns  and  other  pagan 
decorations  are  abundant;  there  are  but  few  crosses. 
The  tops  of  the  chestnut-trees  are  growing  yellow, 
and  here  and  there  a  pale  leaf  falls  upon  the  baked 
earth. 

A  gardener  with  a  harshly-creaking  rake  is  rooting 
out  the  sprouting  grass  from  the  paths ;  some  gossiping 
women  are  seated  upon  the  stone  seats,  brown,  ugly,  in 
starched  and  crimped  white  muslin  caps,  the  gaps  made 
by  missing  teeth  in  their  jaws  repulsively  apparent  as 
they  chatter.  A  labouring  man  passes  with  a  nosegay 
half  concealed  in  the  breast  of  his  coat,  and  in  his  whole 
bearing  that  dull  shamefacedness  which  would  fain  bar 
all  sympathy,  and  which  is  characteristic  of  masculine 
grief.  The  old  Baron  looks  about  him  restlessly,  and 
finally  goes  up  to  the  raking  gardener  and  addresses 
him,  asking  for  the  superintendent  of  the  place.  After 
much  circumlocution,  gesticulation,  and  shouting  on 
both  sides,  the  two  at  last  understand  each  other. 

"Monsieur  cherche  une  tombe,  la  tombe  d'un  etranger 
decede  a  Paris  ?  "When?  Fifteen  years  ago.  That  is 
a  very  long  time.  And  no  one  has  ever  asked  after 
the  grave  before?  Had  the  dead  man  no  relatives, 
then  ?  Ah,  such  a  forgotten  grave  is  very  sad ;  it  will 
bo  difficult  to  identify  it.  Maybe — who  knows  ? — some 


184  "O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!" 

other  bodies  have  been  buried  there.  Here  is  the 
guard." 

"  For  what  is  Monsieur  looking  ?" 

"  A  grave." 

"  The  name  ?" 

"Baron  Frederic  Leskjewitsch."  The  old  man's 
voice  trembles :  perhaps  it  is  too  late ;  perhaps  he  has 
again  delayed  too  long. 

But  no :  the  guard's  face  immediately  takes  on  an 
intelligent  expression. 

"  Tres  bien,  monsieur  ;  par  id,  monsieur.  I  know  tho 
grave  well.  Some  one  from  the  Austrian  embassy 
comes  every  year  to  look  after  it  on  the  part  of  tho 
relatives,  and  this  year,  not  long  ago,— oh,  only  a  short 
time  ago, — two  ladies  came  and  brought  flowers;  an 
elderly  lady,  and  one  quite  young— oh,  but  very  lovely, 
monsieur.  Par  id,  par  id" 

Following  the  attendant,  the  old  man  turns  aside 
from  the  broad,  principal  path  into  a  labyrinth  of 
narrow  foot-ways  winding  irregularly  in  and  out 
among  the  graves.  Here  the  church-yard  loses  its 
formal  aspect  and  becomes  pathetic.  All  kinds  of 
shrubbery  overgrow  the  graves.  Some  flowers — 
crimson  carnations,  pale  purple  gillyflowers,  and  yellow 
asters — are  blooming  at  the  feet  of  strangely-gnarled 
old  juniper-trees.  The  old  man's  breath  comes  short, 
a  sort  of  greed  possesses  him,  a  wild  burning  longing 
for  the  bit  of  earth  where  lies  buried  the  joy  of  his 
life. 

The  labouring  man  with  hanging  head  has  reached  his 
goal  the  first.  He  is  already  kneeling  beside  a  grave, 


«  O  THOU,  MY  A  USTRIA  I"  185 

tiny  little  grave,  hardly  three  feet  long,  and  as  yet 
unprovided  with  a  stone.  The  man  passes  his  hard 
hand  over  the  rough  earth  tenderly,  gently,  as  if  he 
were  touching  something  living.  Then  he  cowers 
down  as  if  he  would  fain  creep  into  it  himself,  and 
lays  his  head  beside  the  poor  little  nosegay  on  the 
fresh  soil. 

"  Par  id,  monsieur, — here  is  the  grave,"  calls  the 
attendant. 

The  old  Baron  shivers  from  head  to  foot. 

"Where?" 

"  Here." 

A  narrow  headstone  at  the  end  of  another  stone 
lying  flat  upon  the  ground  and  enclosed  by  an  iron 
palisade  fence, — this  is  all — all!  A  terrible  despair 
takes  possession  of  the  father.  He  envies  the  labourer, 
who  can  at  least  stroke  the  earth  that  covers  his 
treasure,  while  he  cannot  even  throw  himself  upon 
the  grave  from  which  a  rusty  iron  grating  separates 
him. 

Nothing  which  he  can  press  to  his  heart, — nothing 
in  which  he  can  take  a  melancholy  delight.  All  gone, 
— all!  A  cold  tombstone  enclosed  in  a  rusty  iron 
grating, — nothing  more — nothing  1 


18G  "  O  THOU,  My  A  USTRIA 1" 

CHAPTER    XIII. 

AT   DOBROTSCHAU. 

IT  is  the  day  after  Treurenberg's  meeting  with 
Harry  in  the  dusty  little  garrison  town. 

Lato  is  sitting  at  his  writing-table,  counting  a 
package  of  bank-notes, — his  yesterday's  winnings. 
He  divides  them  into  two  packets  and  encloses  them 
in  two  letters,  which  he  addresses  and  seals  and  sends 
by  a  servant  to  the  post.  He  has  thus  wiped  out  two 
old  debts.  No  sooner  have  the  letters  left  his  hand 
than  he  brushes  his  fingers  with  his  handkerchief,  as 
if  he  had  touched  something  unclean. 

Poor  Treurenberg!  He  has  never  been  a  spend- 
thrift, but  he  has  been  in  debt  ever  since  his  boyhood. 
His  pecuniary  circumstances,  however,  have  never 
been  so  oppressive,  never  have  there  been  such  dis- 
agreeable complications  in  his  affairs,  as  since  he  has 
had  a  millionaire  for  a  wife. 

He  leans  his  elbows  on  his  writing-table  and  rests 
his  chin  on  his  hands.  Angry  discontent  with  himself 
is  tugging  at  his  nerves.  Is  it  not  disgusting  to  liqui- 
date an  old  debt  to  his  tailor,  and  to  pay  interest  to 
a  usurer,  with  his  winnings  at  play?  What  detest- 
able things  cards  are!  If  he  loses  he  hates  it,  and  if 
ho  wins — whj1-,  it  gives  him  a  momentary  satisfaction, 
but  his  annoyance  at  having  impoverished  a  friend 
or  an  acquaintance  is  all  the  greater  afterwards. 


»O  THOU,  MF  AUSTRIA  I"  187 

Every  sensible  disposition  of  the  money  thus  won 
seems  to  him  most  inappropriate.  Money  won  at  cards 
should  be  scattered  about,  squandered;  and  yet  how 
can  he  squander  it, — he  who  has  so  little  and  needs  so 
much?  How  often  he  has  resolved  never  to  touch 
cards  again !  If  he  only  had  some  strong,  sacred  in- 
terest in  life  he  might  become  absorbed  in  it,  and  so 
forget  the  cursed  habit.  He  has  not  the  force  of  char- 
acter tbat  will  enable  him  to  sacrifice  his  passion  for 
play  to  an  abstract  moral  idea.  His  is  one  of  those 
delicate  but  dependent  natures  that  need  a  prop  in  life, 
and  he  has  never  had  one,  even  in  childhood. 

"  What  is  the  use  of  cudgelling  one's  brains  till  they 
ache,  about  what  cannot  be  helped  ?"  he  says  at  last, 
with  a  sigh,  "or  which  I  at  least  cannot  help,"  he 
adds,  with  a  certain  bitterness  of  self-accusation.  He 
rises,  takes  his  hat,  and  strolls  out  into  the  park.  A 
huge,  brown-streaked  stag-hound,  which  had  belonged 
to  the  old  proprietor  of  the  castle  and  which  has 
dogged  Lato's  heels  since  the  previous  evening,  follows 
him.  From  time  to  time  he  turns  and  strokes  the 
animal's  head.  Then  he  forgets 

At  the  same  time,  Paula  is  sitting  in  her  study,  on 
the  ground-floor.  It  looks  out  on  the  court-yard,  and 
is  hung  with  sad-coloured  leather,  and  decorated  with  a 
couple  of  good  old  pictures.  She  is  sitting  there  clad 
in  a  very  modern  buff  muslin  gown,  with  a  fiery  red 
sash,  listening  for  sounds  without  and  with  head  bent 
meanwhile  over  Shakespeare's  '  Romeo  and  Juliet.1 

The  noise  of  distant  hoofs  falls  upon  her  ear,  and  a 
burning  blush  suffuses  her  plump  cheek.  Upon  the 


188  "O  THOU,  MF  AUSTRIA  I" 

white  shade,  which  is  pulled  down,  falls  the  shadow  of 
a  horse's  head,  and  then  the  upper  portion  of  his  rider's 
figure.  The  hoofs  no  longer  sound.  Through  the  sultry 
summer  stillness — breaking  the  monotonous  plashing 
of  the  fountain  and  the  murmur  of  the  old  linden — is 
heard  the  light,  firm  pat  of  a  masculine  hand  upon  a 
horse's  neck,  the  caress  with  which  your  true  horseman 
thanks  his  steed  for  service  rendered ;  then  an  elastic, 
manly  tread,  the  clatter  of  spurs  and  sabre,  a  light 
knock  at  the  door  of  Paula's  room,  and  Harry  Les- 
kjewitsch  enters. 

Paula,  with  a  smile,  holds  out  to  him  both  her  hands; 
without  smiling  he  dutifully  kisses  one  of  them. 

A  pair  of  lovers  in  Meissen  porcelain  stands  upon  a 
bracket  above  Paula's  writing-table, — lovers  who  have 
been  upon  the  point  of  embracing  each  other  for  some- 
thing more  than  a  century.  Above  their  heads  hovers 
a  tiny  ray  of  sunshine,  which  attracts  Harry's  attention 
to  the  group.  He  and  Paula  fall  into  the  very  same 
attitudes  as  those  taken  by  the  powdered  dandy  in  the 
flowered  jacket  and  the  little  peasant-girl  in  dancing, 
slippers, — they  are  on  the  point  of  embracing ;  and  for 
the  first  time  in  his  life  Harry  wishes  he  were  made 
of  porcelain,  that  he  might  remain  upon  the  point. 

His  betrothal  is  now  eight  days  old.  The  first  day 
ho  thought  it  would  be  mere  child's  play  to  loosen  the 
knot  tied  by  so  wild  a  chance,  but  now  he  feels  him- 
self  fast  bound,  and  is  conscious  that  each  day  casts 
about  him  fresh  fetters.  In  vain,  with  every  hour 
passed  with  his  betrothed,  does  he  struggle  not  to 
plunge  deeper  into  this  labyrinth,  from  which  he  can 


"O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIAN  189 

find  no  means  of  extricating  himself.  In  vain  does  he 
try  to  enlighten  Paula  as  to  his  sentiments  towards 
her  by  a  stiff,  repellent  demeanour,  never  lying  to  her 
by  look,  word,  or  gesture. 

But  what  does  it  avail  him  to  stand  before  her  like 
a  saint  on  a  pedestal?  Before  he  is  aware,  she  has 
drawn  his  head  towards  her  and  kissed  him  on  both 
eyes,  whereupon  both  lovers  sigh, — each  for  a  different 
reason, — and  then  sit  down  opposite  each  other.  Paula, 
however,  does  not  long  endure  such  formality.  She 
moves  her  chair  closer  to  his,  and  at  last  lays  her  hand 
on  the  young  officer's  shoulder. 

Harry  is  positively  wretched.  No  use  to  attempt  to 
deceive  himself  any  longer :  Paula  Harfink  is  in  love 
with  him. 

Although  she  brought  about  the  betrothal  by  means 
of  cool  cunning  and  determination,  daily  intercourse 
with  the  handsome,  chivalric  young  fellow  has  kindled 
a  flame  in  her  mature  heart,  and  her  passion  for  him 
grows  with  every  hour  passed  in  his  society. 

It  is  useless  to  say  how  little  this  circumstance  dis- 
poses him  in  her  favour.  Love  is  uncommonly  un- 
becoming to  Paula.  It  is  impossible  to  credit  her 
with  the  impulse  that  forgets  self  and  the  world,  or 
with  the  amount  of  ideal  stupidity  which  invests  all 
the  nonsense  of  lovers  with  grace  and  naturalness. 
Involuntarily,  every  one  feels  inclined  to  smile  when 
so  robust  and  enlightened  a  woman — enlightened  in 
all  directions — suddenly  languishes,  and  puts  on  the 
semblance  of  ultra-feminine  weakness.  Harry  alone 
does  not  smile ;  he  takes  the  matter  very  tragically. 


190  "  0  27/0  U,  MY  A  USTRIA  I" 

Sometimes,  in  deep  privacy  he  clinches  his  fist  and 
mentally  calls  his  betrothed  "  a  love-sick  dromedary  1" 

Naturally  he  does  not  utter  such  words  aloud,  not 
even  when  he  is  alone  in  his  room,  not  even  in  the 
dark ;  but — thought  is  free  1 

"  What  have  you  been  doing  all  this  time  ?"  Paula 
asks  at  last,  archly,  thus  breaking  the  oppressive 
silence. 

"This  time?  Do  you  mean  since  yesterday?"  he 
asks,  frowning. 

"  It  seemed  long  to  me,"  she  sighs.  "  I — I  wrote  you 
a  letter,  which  I  had  not  the  courage  to  send  you. 
There,  take  it  with  you !"  And  she  hands  him  a  bulky 
manuscript  in  a  large  envelope.  It  is  not  the  first  siza- 
ble billet-doux  which  she  has  thus  forced  upon  him. 
In  a  drawer  of  his  writing-table  at  Komaritz  there 
reposes  a  pile  of  such  envelopes,  unopened. 

"  Have  you  read  the  English  novel  I  sent  you  yester- 
day ? — wonderful,  is  it  not  ? — hero  and  heroine  so  like 
ourselves." 

"  I  began  it.     I  thought  it  rather  shallow." 

"  Oh,  well,  I  do  not  consider  it  a  learned  work.  I 
never  care  for  depth  in  a  novel, — only  love  and  high 
life.  Shall  we  go  on  with  our  Shakespeare  ?"  she  asks. 

"  If  you  choose.     What  shall  we  read  ?" 

"  The  moonlight  scene  from  Eomeo  and  Juliet." 

Harry  submits. 

Meanwhile,  Lato,  with  his  brown  attendant,  wanders 
along  the  shady  paths  of  the  Dobrotschau  park.  Now 
and  then  ho  pays  some  attention  to  his  shaggy  com- 


"O  THOU,  MF  AUSTRIA  I"  191 

panion,  strokes  his  head,  sends  him  after  a  stick,  and 
finally  has  him  take  a  bath  in  the  little  reed-encircled 
lake  on  the  shores  of  which  stand  weather-stained  old 
statues,  while  stately  swans  are  gliding  above  its  green 
depths.  These  last  indignantly  chase  the  clumsy  in- 
truder from  their  realm. 

"  Poor  fellow !  they  will  have  none  of  you  1"  Treu- 
renberg  murmurs,  consoling  the  dog  as  he  creeps  out 
upon  the  bank  with  drooping  tail  and  ears. 

Suddenly  he  hears  the  notes  of  a  pi#no  from  the 
direction  of  the  castle.  He  turns  and  walks  towards 
it,  almost  as  if  he  were  obeying  a  call. 

Pausing  before  an  open  glass  door  leading  into  tho 
garden,  he  looks  in  upon  a  spacious,  airy  apartment, 
the  furniture  of  which  consists  of  a  large  Gobelin 
hanging,  a  grand  piano,  and  some  bamboo  chairs  scat- 
tered about. 

At  the  piano  a  young  girl  is  seated  playing  a  dreamy 
improvisation  upon  '  The  Miller  and  the  Brook,'  that 
loveliest  and  saddest  of  all  Schubert's  miller-songs.  It 
is  Olga.  Involuntarily  Lato's  eyes  are  riveted  upon 
the  charming  picture.  The  girl  is  tall  and  slim,  with 
long,  slender  hands  and  feet.  If  one  might  venture  to 
criticise  anything  so  beautiful  as  her  face,  its  pure  oval 
might  be  pronounced  a  thought  too  long. 

Her  features  are  faultless,  despite  their  irregularity ; 
the  forehead  is  low,  the  eyebrows  straight  and  deli- 
cately pencilled,  the  eyes  large  and  dark,  and,  when 
she  opens  them  wide,  of  almost  supernatural  bril- 
liancy. The  mouth  is  small,  the  under  lip  a  trifle  too 
full,  and  the  chin  a  little  too  long. 


192  "O  THOU,  MF  AUSTRIA!" 

Those  irregularities  lend  a  peculiar  charm  to  the  face, 
reminding  one  of  certain  old  Spanish  family  portraits, 
— dark-eyed  beauties  with  high  collars,  and  with  huge 
pearls  in  their  ears.  The  facts  that  Olga  neither  wears 
a  bang  nor  curls  her  hair  upon  her  forehead,  but  has 
it  parted  simply  in  the  middle  to  lie  in  thick  waves  on 
either  side  of  her  head,  and  that  her  complexion  is 
of  a  transparent  pallor,  contribute  still  further  to  her 
resemblance  to  those  distinguished  individuals.  She 
wears  a  simple  white  gown,  with  a  Malmaison  rose 
stuck  in  her  belt.  Lato's  eyes  rest  upon  her  with  ar- 
tistic satisfaction.  The  tender  melody  of  the  Miller's 
Song  soothes  his  sore  heart  as  if  by  a  caress.  He 
softly  enters  the  room,  sits  down,  and  listens.  Olga, 
suddenly  aware  by  intuition  of  his  presence,  turns  her 
head. 

"Ah! — you  here?"  she  exclaims,  blushing  slightly, 
and  taking  her  hands  from  the  keys. 

"  I  have  made  so  bold,"  ho  replies,  smiling.  "  Have 
you  any  objection  ?" 

"  No ;  but  you  should  have  announced  yourself,"  she 
says,  with  a  little  frown. 

"  Ah,  indeed  I"  he  rejoins,  in  the  tone  in  which  one 
teases  a  child.  ""Well,  the  listening  to  a  musical 
soliloquy  is  generally  considered  only  a  harmless  in- 
discretion." 

"  Yes ;  when  I  am  playing  something  worth  listening 
to  I  have  no  objection,  but  I  prefer  to  keep  my  halting 
improvisations  to  myself." 

"Well,  then,  play  something  worth  listening  to,"  he 
Bays,  good-humouredly. 


"0  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA  I"  193 

She  turns  again  to  the  instrument,  and  begins,  with 
great  brilliancy  of  touch,  to  play  a  bravura-scherzo, 
by  some  Viennese  composer  at  present  in  fashion. 

"  For  heaven's  sake,"  Treurenberg,  whose  feeling  for 
music  is  as  delicate  as  his  appreciation  of  all  beauty, 
interrupts  her,  "do  not  go  on  with  that  ghastly 
Witches'  Sabbath !" 

"The  'ghastly  Witches'  Sabbath'  is  dedicated  to 
your  cousin,  Countess  Wodin,"  Olga  replies,  taking  up 
a  piece  of  music  from  the  piano.  "  There  it  is !" — she 
points  to  the  title-page — "'Dedicated  to  the  Frau 
Countess  Irma  Wodin,  nee  Countess  Trauenstein,  by 
her  devoted  servant,  etc.'  I  thought  the  thing  might 
interest  you." 

"Not  in  the  least.  Be  a  good  girl,  and  play  the 
Miller's  Song  over  again." 

She  nods  amiably.  Again  the  dreamy  melody  sighs 
among  the  strings  of  the  piano.  Lato,  buried  in 
thought,  hums  the  words, — 

"  Where'er  a  true  heart  dies  of  love, 
The  lilies  fade  that  grave  above." 

"  Do  you  know  the  words  too  ?"  Olga  exclaims,  turn- 
ing towards  him. 

"If  you  but  knew  how  often  I  have  heard  that 
song  sungl"  he  replies,  with  the  absent  air  of  a  man 
whose  thoughts  are  straying  in  a  far  past. 

"At  concerts r 

"  No,  in  private." 

"  By  a  lady  ?"  she  asks,  half  persistently,  half  hesi- 
tatingly. 

in  17 


194  "0  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!" 

"Yes,  grand  inquisitor,  by  a  lady;  by  a  lady  for 
whom  I  had  a  little  tendresse — h'm! — a  very  sincere 
tendresse.  She  sang  it  to  me  every  day.  The  very 
evening  before  her  betrothal  she  sang  it  to  mo;  and 
how  deliciously  sweet  it  wasl  Would  you  like  to 
know  who  it  was  ?" 

«  Yes." 

"The  Countess  Wodin." 

"The  Countess  Wodin!"  Olga  exclaims,  amazed. 

Lato  laughs.  "  You  cannot  understand  how  any  one 
could  take  any  interest  in  such  a  flirt?" 

"Oh,  no,"  she  says,  thoughtfully,  "it  is  not  that. 
She  is  very  pretty  even  yet,  and  gay  and  amusing, 
but — he  is  horrible,  and  I  cannot  understand  her 
marrying  him,  when " 

"When  she  might  have  had  me?"  he  concludes  her 
sentence,  laughing. 

"  Frankly,  yes."  As  she  speaks  she  looks  full  in  his 
face  with  undisguised  kindliness. 

He  smiles,  flattered,  and  still  more  amused.  "  What 
would  you  have?  Wodin  was  rich,  and  I — I  was  a 
poor  devil." 

"  Oh,  how  odious !"  she  murmurs,  frowning,  her  dark 
eyes  glowing  with  indignation.  "I  cannot  under- 
stand how  any  one  can  marry  for  money "  She 

stops  short.  As  she  spoke  her  eyes  met  his,  and 
his  were  instantly  averted.  An  embarrassing  pause 
ensues. 

Olga  feels  that  she  is  upon  dangerous  ground.  They 
both  change  colour, — he  turns  pale,  she  blushes, — but 
her  embarrassment  is  far  greater  than  his.  When  ho 


"0   THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  195 

looks  at  her  again  ho  sees  that  there  are  tears  in  her 
eyes,  and  he  pities  her. 

"Do  not  vex  yourself,  Olga,"  he  says,  with  a  low, 
bitter  laugh.  And  taking  one  of  her  slender  hands 
in  his,  he  strokes  it  gently,  and  then  carries  it  to 
his  lips. 

"  Ah,  still  aux  petits  soins  ? — how  touching  I"  a  harsh 
nasal  voice  observes  behind  the  pair.  They  look  round 
and  perceive  a  young  man,  who,  in  spite  of  his  instant 
apology  for  intruding,  shows  not  the  slightest  disposi- 
tion to  depart.  He  is  dressed  in  a  light  summer  suit 
after  the  latest  watering-place  fashion.  He  is  neither 
tall  nor  short,  neither  stout  nor  slender,  neither  hand- 
some nor  ugly,  but  thoroughly  unsympathetic  in  ap- 
pearance. His  very  pale  complexion  is  spotted  with  a 
few  pock-marks ;  his  light  green  eyes  are  set  obliquely 
in  his  head,  like  those  of  a  Japanese ;  the  long,  twisted 
points  of  his  moustache  reach  upward  to  his  temples, 
and  his  hair  is  brushed  so  smoothly  upon  his  head  that 
it  looks  like  a  highly-polished  barber's  block.  But  all 
these  details  are  simply  by  the  way ;  what  especially 
disfigures  him  is  his  smile,  which  shows  his  big  white 
teeth,  and  seems  to  pull  the  end  of  his  long,  thin  nose 
down  over  his  moustache. 

"  Fainacky !"  exclaims  Treurenberg,  unpleasantly  sur- 
prised. 

"  Yes,  the  same !  I  am  charmed  to  see  you  again, 
Treurenberg,"  exclaims  the  Pole.  "Have  the  kind- 
ness to  present  me  to  your  wife,"  he  adds,  bowing 
to  Olga. 

"  I  think  my  wife  is  dressing,"  Treurenberg  says, 


196  "  O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!" 

coldly.  "This  is  a  young  relative, — a  cousin  of  my 
wife's. — Olga,  allow  me  to  introduce  to  you  Count 
Fainacky." 

In  the  mean  time  Paula  is  occupied  with  her  be- 
trothed's  education.  In  tones  that  grow  drowsier  and 
drowsier,  while  his  articulation  becomes  more  and 
more  indistinct,  Harry  stumbles  through  Shakespeare's 
immortal  verse. 

Paula's  part  is  given  with  infinite  sentiment.  The 
thing  is  growing  too  tiresome,  Harry  thinks. 

"  I  really  have  had  enough  of  this  stun7  for  once !" 
ho  exclaims,  laying  aside  his  volume. 

"  Ah,  Harry,  how  can  you  speak  so  of  the  most  ex- 
quisite poetry  of  love  that  ever  has  been  written  ?" 

He  twirls  his  moustache  ill-humouredly,  and  mur- 
murs, "You  are  very  much  changed  within  the  last 
few  days." 

"  But  not  for  the  worse  ?"  she  asks,  piqued. 

"At  last  she  is  going  to  take  offence,"  he  says  to 
himself,  exultantly,  and  he  is  beginning  to  finger  his 
betrothal-ring,  when  the  door  opens  and  a  servant 
announces,  "  Herr  Count  Fainacky." 

"  How  well  you  look,  my  dear  Baroness  Paula  I  Ah, 
the  correct  air,  beaming  with  bliss, — on  connait  cela! 
Taking  advantage  of  your  Frau  mother's  kind  invi- 
tation, I  present  myself,  as  you  see,  without  notifica- 
tion," the  Pole  chatters  on.  "How  are  you,  Harry? 
In  the  seventh  heaven,  of  course, — of  course."  And  he 
drops  into  an  arm-chair  and  fans  himself  with  a  pink- 
bordered  pocket-handkerchief  upon  which  are  depicted 


"0  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  197 

various  jockeys  upon  race-horses,  and  which  exhales  a 
strong  odour  of  musk. 

"  I  am  extremely  glad  to  see  you,"  Paula  assures  the 
visitor.  "I  hope  you  have  come  to  stay  some  days 
with  us.  Have  you  seen  mamma  yet  ?" 

"  No."  And  Fainacky  fans  himself  yet  more  affect- 
edly. "  I  wandered  around  the  castle  at  first  without 
finding  any  one  to  announce  me.  Then  I  had  an 
adventure, — ha,  ha!  C'est par  trop  betel" 

"What  was  it?" 

"  In  my  wanderings  I  reached  an  open  door  into  a 
room  looking  upon  the  garden.  There  I  found  Treu- 
renberg  and  a  young  lady, — only  fancy, — I  thought  it 
was  his  wife.  I  took  that — what  is  her  name  ? — Olga 
— your  protegee — for  your  sister, — for  the  Countess 
Selina,  and  begged  Treurenberg  to  present  me  to  his 
wife, — ha,  ha  I  Vraiment  c'est  par  trop  bete  /" 

At  this  moment  a  tall,  portly  figure,  with  reddish 
hair,  dazzling  complexion,  and  rather  sharp  features, 
sails  into  the  room. 

"  Here  is  my  sister,"  says  Paula,  and  a  formal  intro- 
duction follows. 

"Before  seeing  the  Countess  Selina  I  thought  my 
mistake  only  comical.  I  now  think  it  unpardonable  1" 
Painacky  exclaims,  with  his  hand  on  his  heart. 
"  Harry,  did  the  resemblance  never  strike  you  ?"  He 
gazes  in  a  rapture  of  admiration  at  the  Countess. 

"  What  resemblance  ?"  asks  Harry. 

"  Why,  the  resemblance  to  the  Princess  of  Wales." 


17* 


]98  "O   THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!" 

CHAPTER   XIY. 

OLGA. 

"  AND  pray  who  is  Fraulein  Olga  ?" 

It  is  Fainacky  who  puts  this  question  to  the  Countess 
Treurenberg,  just  after  luncheon,  during  which  meal 
he  has  contrived  to  ingratiate  himself  thoroughly  with 
Lato's  wife. 

He  and  the  Countess  are  seated  beneath  a  red-and- 
gray -striped  tent  on  the  western  side  of  the  castle; 
beside  them  stands  a  table  from  which  the  coffee  has 
not  yet  been  removed.  The  rest  of  the  company  have 
vanished. 

The  Baroness  Harfink  is  writing  a  letter  to  her 
brother,  one  of  the  leaders  of  the  Austrian  democracy, 
who  was  once  minister  for  three  months ;  Paula  and 
Harry  are  enjoying  a  tete-d-tete  in  the  park,  and  Treu- 
renberg is  taking  advantage  of  the  strong  sunlight  to 
photograph  alternately  and  from  every  point  of  view 
a  half-ruinous  fountain  and  two  hollyhocks. 

"  Pray  who  is  this  Fraulein  Olga  ?"  Fainacky  asks, 
removing  the  ashes  from  the  end  of  his  cigarette  with 
the  long  finger-nail  of  his  little  finger. 

"  Ah,  it  is  quite  a  sad  story,"  is  the  Countess  Selina's 
reply. 

"  Excuse  me  if  I  am  indiscreet ;  I  had  no  idea " 

the  Pole  begins. 

"Oli,  you  are  one  of  the  family,  quite  one  of  the 


"0  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA  I"  199 

family,"  Selina  assures  him,  with  an  amiable  smile. 
"  I  might  have  thought  the  question  embarrassing  from 
any  one  else,  but  I  can  speak  to  you  without  reserve 
of  these  matters.  You  are  perhaps  aware  that  a  sister 
of  my  father's, — his  only  sister, — when  quite  an  old 
maid, — I  believe  she  was  thirty-seven, — ran  off  with 
an  actor,  a  very  obscure  comedian ;  I  think  he  played 
tbe  elderly  knights  at  the  Rudolfsheim  Theatre,  and 
as  the  bandit  Jaromir  he  turned  her  head.  She  dis- 
played the  courage  de  ses  opinions,  and  married  him. 
He  treated  her  brutally,  and  she  died,  after  fifteen  years 
of  wretched  married  life.  On  her  death-bed  she  sent 
for  my  father,  "and  bequeathed  her  daughter  to  his 
care.  This  was  Olga.  My  father — I  cannot  tell  how 
it  happened — took  the  most  immense  fancy  to  the  girl. 
He  tried  to  persuade  mamma  to  take  her  home  im- 
mediately. Fancy ! — a  creature  brought  up  amid  such 
surroundings,  behind  the  foot-lights.  True,  my  aunt 
was  separated  from  her  bandit  Jarorair  for  several 
years  before  her  death ;  but  under  such  strange  circum- 
stances mamma  really  could  not  take  the  little  gypsy 
into  the  house  with  her  own  half-grown  daughters. 
So  she  was  sent  to  a  convent,  and  we  all  hoped  she 
would  become  a  nun.  But  no ;  and  when  her  educa- 
tion was  finished,  shortly  before  papa's  death,  mamma 
took  her  home.  I  was  married  at  the  time,  and  I 
remember  her  arrival  vividly.  You  can  imagine  how 
terrible  it  was  for  us  to  admit  so  strange  an  element 
among  us.  But,  although  ho  seldom  interfered  in 
domestic  affairs,  it  was  impossible  to  dispute  papa's 
commands." 


200  "O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!" 

"H'm,  h'm!"  And  the  Pole's  slender  white  fingers 
drum  upon  the  top  of  the  table.  "  Je  comprends.  It 
is  a  great  charge  for  your  mother,  and  c'est  bien  dur" 
Although  he  speaks  French  stumblingly,  he  continually 
expresses  himself  in  that  tongue,  as  if  it  is  the  only 
one  in  which  he  can  give  utterance  to  the  inmost 
feelings  of  his  soul. 

"Ah,  mamma  has  always  sacrificed  everything  to 
duty  I"  sighs  Selina;  "and  somebody  had  to  take  pity 
upon  the  poor  creature." 

"Nobly  said,  and  nobly  thought,  Countess  Selina; 
but  then,  after  all, — an  actor's  daughter, — you  really  do 
not  know  all  that  it  means.  Does  she  show  no  signs 
of  her  unfortunate  parentage  ?" 

"  No,"  says  Selina,  thoughtfully ;  "  her  manners  are 
very  good, — the  spell  of  the  Sacre  Coeur  Convent  is  still 
upon  her.  She  is  not  particularly  well  developed  in- 
tellectually, but,  since  you  call  my  attention  to  it,  she 
does  show  some  signs  of  the  overstrained  enthusiasm 
which  characterized  her  mother." 

"  And  in  combination  with  her  father's  gypsy  blood. 
Such  signs  are  greatly  to  be  deplored,"  the  Pole  ob- 
serves. "  You  must  long  to  have  her  married  ?" 

"  A  difficult  matter  to  bring  about.  Kemember  her 
origin."  The  Countess  inclines  her  head  on  one  side, 
and  takes  a  long  stitch  in  her  embroidery.  "  She  must 
be  the  image  of  her  father.  The  bandit  Jaromir  was 
a  handsome  man  of  Italian  extraction." 

"  Is  the  fellow  still  alive  ?"  asks  the  Pole. 

"  No,  he  is  dead,  thank  heaven !  it  would  be  terrible 
if  he  were  not,"  says  Selina,  with  a  laugh.  "  X  propos," 


"0  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  201 

she  adds,  selecting  and  comparing  two  shades  of  yel- 
low, "  do  you  think  Olga  pretty  ?" 

"H'm!  pas  mal, — not  particularly.  Had  I  seen  her 
anywhere  else,  I  might  perhaps  have  thought  her 
pretty,  but  here — forgive  my  frankness,  Countess 
Selina — no  other  woman  has  a  chance  when  you  are 
present.  You  must  be  conscious  of  that  yourself." 

"Vil  flatteur!"  the  young  wife  exclaims,  playfully 
lashing  the  Pole's  hand  with  a  skein  of  wool.  The 
pair  have  known  each  other  for  scarcely  three  hours, 
and  they  are  already  upon  as  familiar  a  footing  as  if 
they  had  been  friends  from  childhood.  Moreover, 
they  are  connections.  At  Carlsbad,  where  Fainacky 
lately  made  the  acquaintance  of  the  Baroness  Harfink 
and  her  daughter  Paula,  he  informed  the  ladies  that 
one  of  his  grandmothers,  a  Lowenzahn  by  birth,  was 
cousin  to  an  uncle  of  the  Baroness's. 

The  persistence  with  which  he  dwelt  upon  this  fact, 
the  importance  he  attached  to  being  treated  as  a  cousin 
by  the  Harfinks,  touched  Paula  as  well  as  her  mother. 
Besides,  as  they  had  already  told  Selina,  they  liked 
him  from  the  first. 

"  One  is  never  ashamed  to  be  seen  with  him,"  was  the 
immediate  decision  of  the  fastidious  ladies ;  and  as  time 
passed  on  they  discovered  in  him  such  brilliant  and  un- 
usual qualities  that  they  considered  him  a  great  acqui- 
sition,— an  entertaining,  cultivated  man  of  some  talent. 

He  is  neither  cultivated  nor  entertaining,  and  as  for 
his  talent,  that  is  a  matter  of  opinion.  If  his  singing 
is  commonplace,  his  performance  on  the  piano  com- 
monplace, and  the  vers  de  societe  which  he  scribbles  in 


202  "O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA  I" 

young  ladies'  extract-books  more  commonplace  than 
all,  in  one  art  he  certainly  holds  the  first  rank, — the 
art  of  discovering  and  humouring  the  weaknesses  of 
his  fellow-mortals, — the  art  of  the  flatterer. 

To  pursue  this  art  with  distinguished  ability  two 
qualifications  are  especially  needful, — impudence  and 
lack  of  refinement.  With  the  help  of  these  allies  the 
strongest  incense  may  be  wafted  before  one's  fellow- 
creatures,  and  they  will  all — with  the  exception  of  a 
few  suspicious  originals — inhale  it  eagerly.  Experi- 
ence has  taught  Fainacky  that  boldness  is  of  far  more 
avail  in  this  art  than  delicacy,  and  he  conducts  him- 
self accordingly. 

Flattery  is  his  special  profession,  his  means  for  sup- 
porting his  idle,  coxcomb  existence, — flattery  and  its 
sister  art,  slander.  A  successful  epigram  at  another's 
expense  gives  many  of  us  more  pleasure  than  a  com- 
pliment paid  to  ourselves. 

He  flutters,  flattering  and  gossiping,  from  one  house 
to  another.  The  last  few  weeks  he  has  spent  with  a 
bachelor  prince  in  the  neighbourhood,  who,  a  sufferer 
from  neuralgia  in  the  face,  has  been  known,  when  irri- 
tated, to  throw  the  sofa-cushions  at  his  guests.  At  first 
Fainacky  professed  to  consider  this  a  very  good  joke ; 
but  one  day  when  the  prince  showed  signs  of  select- 
ing more  solid  projectiles  for  the  display  of  his  merry 
humour,  Fainacky  discovered  that  the  time  had  come 
for  him  to  bestow  the  pleasure  of  his  society  elsewhere. 

Dobrottfchau  seemed  to  offer  just  what  he  sought, 
and  he  has  won  his  hostess's  heart  a  second  time  by 
his  abuse  during  luncheon  of  his  late  host's  cook. 


«O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  203 

While  ho  is  now  paying  court  to  the  Countess  Selina, 
a  touching  scene  is  enacting  in  another  part  of  the 
garden.  Paula,  who  during  her  walk  with  her  betrothed 
has  perceived  Treurenberg  with  his  photographic  appa- 
ratus in  the  distance,  proposes  to  Harry  that  they  be 
photographed  as  lovers.  The  poor  young  fellow's 
resistance  avails  nothing  against  Paula's  strong  will. 
She  triumphantly  drags  him  up  before  the  apparatus, 
and,  after  much  trying,  discovers  a  pose  which  seems 
to  her  sufficiently  tender.  With  her  clasped  hands 
upon  Harry's  shoulder,  she  gazes  up  at  him  with  en- 
thusiastic devotion. 

"  Do  not  look  so  stern,"  she  murmurs ;  "  if  I  did  not 
know  how  you  love  me,  I  should  almost  fancy  you 
hated  me." 

Lato,  half  shutting  his  eyes  in  artistic  observation  of 
the  pair,  takes  off  the  shield  of  the  instrument,  saying, 
"  Now,  if  you  please  !" 

The  impression  is  a  failure,  because  Harry  moved  his 
head  just  at  the  critical  moment.  When,  however, 
Paula  requires  him  to  give  pantomimic  expression  to 
his  tender  sentiments  for  the  second  time,  he  declares 
that  he  cannot  stay  three  minutes  longer,  the  'vet' 
is  waiting  for  him  at  Komaritz. 

"  Oh,  that  odious  '  vet' ! "  sighs  Paula.  "  This  is  the 
third  time  this  week  that  you  have  had  to  leave  me 
because  of  him." 

Harry  bites  his  lip.  Evidently  it  is  high  time  to 
invent  another  pretext  for  the  unnatural  abbreviation 
of  his  visits.  But — if  she  would  only  take  offence  at 
something ! 


204  "O  THOU,  MF  AUSTRIA!" 

"  Can  you  not  come  with  me  to  Komaritz  ?"  he  asks 
Lato,  in  order  to  give  the  conversation  a  turn,  where- 
upon Lato,  who  instantly  accedes  to  his  request,  hurries 
into  the  castle  to  make  ready  for  his  ride.  Shortly 
afterwards,  riding-whip  in  hand,  he  approaches  Selina, 
who  is  still  beneath  the  red-and-gray  tent  with  Fai- 
nacky. 

"  Ah,  you  are  going  to  leave  me  alone  again,  faithless 
spouse  that  you  are!"  she  calls  out,  threatening  him 
with  a  raised  forefinger.  Then,  turning  to  the  Pole, 
she  adds,  "  Our  marriage  is  a  fashionable  6ne,  such  as 
you  read  of  in  books :  the  husband  goes  one  way,  the 
wife  another.  'Tis  the  only  way  to  make  life  tolerable 
in  the  long  run,  is  it  not,  Lato  ?" 

Lato  makes  no  reply,  flushes  slightly,  kisses  his  wife's 
hand,  nods  carelessly  to  Fainacky,  and  turns  to  go. 

"  Shall  you  come  back  to  dinner  ?"  Selina  calls  after 
him. 

"  Of  course,"  he  replies,  as  he  vanishes  behind  the 
shrubbery. 

Fainacky  strokes  his  moustache  thoughtfully,  stares 
first  at  the  Countess,  then  at  the  top  of  the  table,  and 
finally  gives  utterance  to  an  expressive  "  Ah  I" 

Lato  hurries  on  to  overtake  his  friend,  whom  he 
espies  striding  towards  the  park  gate. 

Suddenly  Olga  approaches  him,  a  huge  straw  hat 
shading  her  eyes,  and  in  her  hands  a  large,  dish-shaped 
cabbage-leaf  full  of  inviting,  fresh  strawberries. 

"  Whither  are  you  hurrying?"  she  asks. 

"  I  am  going  to  ride  to  Komaritz  with  Harry,"  he 
replies.  "  Ah,  what  magnificent  strawberries !" 


«  O  THOU,  MY  A USTRIA  I"  205 

"  I  know  they  are  your  favourite  fruit,  and  I  plucked 
them  for  you,"  she  says. 

*f  /  V 

"  In  this  heat  ? — oh,  Olga !"  he  exclaims. 

"  The  sun  would  have  burned  them  up  by  evening," 
she  says,  simply. 

He  understands  that  she  has  meant  to  atone  for  her 
inadvertence  of  the  morning,  and  he  is  touched. 

"  Will  you  not  take  some  ?"  she  asks,  persisting  in 
offering  him  the  leaf. 

He  takes  one.  Meanwhile,  his  glance  encounters 
Harry's.  Olga  is  entirely  at  her  ease,  while  Lato — 
from  what  cause  he  could  not  possibly  tell — is  slightly 
embarrassed. 

"  I  have  no  time  now,"  he  says,  gently  rejecting  the 
hand  that  holds  the  leaf. 

"Shall  I  keep  them  for  your  dessert? — you  are 
coming  back  to  dinner  ?"  she  asks. 

"  Certainly.  I  shall  be  back  by  six  o'clock,"  he  calla 
to  her.  "  Adieu,  my  child." 

As  the  two  friends  a  few  minutes  later  ride  down  the 
long  poplar  avenue,  Harry  asks, — 

"  Has  this  Olga  always  lived  here  ?" 

"  No.  She  came  home  from  the  convent  a  year  after 
my  marriage.  Selina  befriends  her  because  Paula  can- 
not get  along  with  her.  She  often  travels  with  us." 

"  She  seems  pleasant  and  sympathetic,"  says  Harry, 
adding,  after  a  short  pause,  "I  have  seldom  seen  so 
perfect  a  beauty." 

"  She  is  as  good  as  gold,"  Lato  says,  quickly,  adding, 
in  a  rather  lower  tone,  "  and  most  forlorn,  poor  thing  1" 


18 


206  "O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!" 

CHAPTER   XV. 

COMRADES  AND   FRIENDS. 

THE  clumsy  Komaritz  mansion  casts  its  huge  shadow 
upon  the  old-fashioned  garden,  upon  the  large  rec- 
tangular flower-beds  bordered  with  sage  and  parsley, 
wherein  bloom  in  gay  companionship  sweet-smelling 
centifolia  roses,  dark-blue  monk's-hood,  scarlet  verbe- 
nas, and  lilac  phlox;  upon  the  tangle  of  raspberry- 
and  blackberry-bushes  that  grow  along  the  garden 
wall ;  and  upon  the  badly-mown  lawn.  Ancient  pear- 
trees  and  apple-trees  mingle  their  shade  with  that  of 
the  old  house. 

An  afternoon  languor  broods  over  it  all.  The  buzz 
of  bees  above  the  flower-beds  sounds  languid ;  languid 
sounds  the  rustle  of  the  leaves  when,  after  a  prolonged 
slumber,  they  awake  for  an  instant,  shiver,  and  then 
fall  silent  again ;  languid  is  the  tone  of  the  old  piano, 
upon  which  the  youngest  Leskjewitsch  is  practising 
the  '  Cloches  du  Monastere,'  under  the  supervision  of 
a  teacher  engaged  for  the  summer  holidays, — a  Fraulein 
Laut. 

Nothing  is  for  the  present  to  be  seen  or  heard  of 
the  other  inmates  of  the  castle.  Hedwig  is  consulting 
with  her  maid,  and  the  Countess  Zriny  is  endeavouring 
to  repair  a  great  misfortune.  On  her  journey  from 
Vienna  to  Komaritz  she  relieved  her  maid,  who  was 
overladen  with  hand-bags,  of  two  objects  particularly 


"O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  207 

dear  to  her  soul, — a  carved,  partly-painted  and  partly- 
gilded  St.  John,  and  a  large  bottle  of  eau  de  Lourdes. 
In  changing  trains  at  Pernik,  she  slipped  and  fell  at 
full  length  upon  the  platform ;  the  bottle  of  eau  de 
Lourdes  flew  one  way  and  the  St.  John  another ;  the 
bottle  was  broken,  and  St.  John  not  only  lost  his  head 
and  one  hand,  but  when  the  poor  Countess  gathered 
up  his  remains  he  proved  to  be  injured  in  every  part. 
His  resuscitation  is  at  present  the  important  task  of 
the  old  lady's  life.  At  this  moment  she  is  working 
away  at  the  folds  of  his  garment  with  much  devotion 
— and  black  oil  paint. 

Harry  and  Lato  have  told  no  one  of  their  arrival. 
They  are  lying  upon  a  grassy  slope  beneath  a  huge 
apple-tree,  smoking,  and  exchanging  reminiscences. 

"How  homelike  all  this  isl"  says  Treurenberg,  in 
his  soft  voice,  and  with  a  slightly  drawling  intonation. 
"  I  grow  ten  years  younger  here.  The  same  flowers, 
the  same  trees,  the  same  fragrance,  the  same  world- 
forgotten  solitude,  and,  if  I  am  not  mistaken," — he 
smiles  a  little, — "  the  same  music.  You  used  to  play 
the  '  Convent  Bells'  then." 

"  Yes,"  Harry  replies,  "  '  Les  Cloches  du  Monastere' 
was  the  acme  and  the  point  of  departure  of  my  musical 
studies.  I  got  rid  of  my  last  music-teacher  and  my 
last  '  coach'  at  the  same  time." 

"  Do  you  mean  Tuschalek  ?"  asks  Treurenberg. 
"  That  was  his  name." 

"H'm!  I  can  see  him  now.  Heavens!  those  hands!" 
Treurenberg  gazes  reflectively  into  space.  "  They  were 
always  as  red  as  radishes." 


208  "0  THOU,  MF  AUSTRIA!" 

"  They  reminded  me  rather  of  carrots  that  had  just 
been  pulled  out  of  the  ground,"  Harry  mutters. 

"  How  the  old  times  rise  up  before  me  1"  Lato  muses, 
letting  his  glance  wander  anew  over  the  garden,  where 
there  is  buzzing  of  innumerable  bees ;  over  the  clumsy 
facade  of  the  mansion ;  over  the  little  eminence  where 
still  stand  the  quarters  of  Tuschalek  and  the  Pole; 
then  up  to  the  old  ruined  castle,  which  stands  out 
against  the  dark-blue  August  skies  an  almost  form- 
less shape,  brown  and  grim,  with  its  old  scars  from 
fire,  and  hung  about  with  wreaths  of  wild  climbing 
vines. 

"'Tis  odd, — something  has  seemed  to  me  lacking 
about  the  dear  old  nest,"  Lato  begins  again,  after  a 
pause.  "  Now  I  know  what  it  is." 

"Well?" 

"The  little  figure  of  your  cousin  Zdena.  I  am 
always  looking  for  her  to  come  skipping  from  among 
the  flowers  like  a  wayward  little  fairy." 

Harry  frowns,  plucks  a  buttercup  growing  in  the 
grass,  and  is  mute. 

Without  heeding  his  friend's  mood,  Treurenberg 
goes  on:  "As  a  child,  she  was  most  charming  and 
unusually  intelligent  and  gifted.  Has  the  promise  of 
her  childhood  not  been  fulfilled  ?" 

Harry  pulls  another  buttercup  out  of  the  grass,  and 
carefully  deposits  it  beside  the  first. 

"  That  is  a  matter  of  opinion,"  he  remarks,  carelessly, 
without  looking  at  his  friend. 

"  'Tis  strange  I  Many  a  girl's  beauty  vanishes  sud- 
denly at  about  fourteen  without  leaving  a  trace ;  but 


"  O  TEO  U,  MT  A  USTRJA !"  209 

I  would  have  wagered  my  head  that  your  cousin  would 
have  been  beautiful,"  remarks  Lato. 

"  I  have  not  said  that  she  is  ugly,"  Harry  growls. 

"But  you  do  not  like  her!"  Lato  now  rivets  his 
eyes  full  upon  the  gloomy  face  of  his  former  play- 
mate. 

Harry  turns  away  his  head. 

"  I  did  not  say  I  did  not  like  her,"  he  bursts  out, 
"  but  I  can't  talk  of  her,  because — because  it  is  all  her 
fault  1" 

«  What  is  <  all'  ?"  asks  Lato,  still  looking  fixedly  at  his 
friend. 

Harry  frowns  and  says  nothing. 

Lato  does  not  speak  again  for  a  few  moments.  Then, 
having  lighted  a  fresh  cigar,  he  begins :  "  I  always  fan- 
cied,— one  so  often  arranges  in  imagination  a  friend's 
future  for  him,  particularly  when  one's  own  fate  is  fixed 
past  recall, — I  always  said  to  myself  that  you  and  your 
cousin  would  surely  come  together.  I  liked  to  think 
that  it  would  be  so.  To  speak  frankly,  your  betrothal 
to  Paula  was  a  great  surprise  to  me." 

"  Indeed  ?  Well,  so  it  was  to  me !"  Harry  blurts  out, 
then  turns  very  red,  is  ashamed  of  his  unbecoming 
confession ;  and  then — then  he  is  glad  that  it  has  been 
extorted  from  him;  glad  that  he  can  speak  frankly 
about  the  affair  to  any  one  with  whom  he  can  take 
counsel. 

Treurenberg  draws  a  long  breath,  and  then  whistles 
softly  to  himself. 

"Sets  the  wind  in  that  quarter?"  he  says  at  last. 
"I  thought  so.  I  determined  that  you  should  show 
o  18* 


210  "O  THOU,  M7  AUSTRIA!" 

your  colours.  And  may  I  ask  how  you  over  got  into 
such  a  confounded  scrape  ?" 

Harry  groans.  "What  would  you  have? — moon- 
light, nervous  excitement, — all  of  a  sudden  there  we 
were!  I  had  quarrelled  with  my  cousin  Zdena — 
God  bless  her!  In  spite  of  her  whims  and  fancies, — • 
one  never  knows  what  she  would  be  at, — she  is  the 

dearest,  loveliest  creature !  But  that  is  only  by 

the  way " 

"  Not  at  all,  not  at  all ;  it  interests  me  extremely," 
Treurenberg  interrupts  him,  laughing. 

"  That  may  be,  but  it  has  very  little  to  do  with  my 
explanation,"  Harry  rejoins,  dryly.  "  The  fact  is,  that 
it  was  a  warm  night  in  August,  and  I  was  driving  alone 
with  Paula, — that  is,  with  no  coachman,  and  only 
my  groom,  who  followed  with  my  horse,  and  whom  I 
entirely  forgot, — from  Zirkow  to  Dobrotschau,  along 
that  rough  forest  road, — you  remember, — where  one  is 
jolted  against  one's  companion  at  every  step,  and  there 
is  opportunity  for  a  girl  to  be  becomingly  timid — h'm ! 
She  suddenly  became  frightened  at  a  will-o'-the-wisp, 
• — she  never  struck  me  before  as  having  such  weak 
nerves, — and — well,  I  was  distraught  over  my  quarrel 
with  Zdena,  and  I  had  taken  perhaps  a  glass  too  much 
of  Uncle  Paul's  old  Bordeaux ;  in  short,  I  kissed  her. 
In  an  instant  I  recollected  myself,  and,  if  I  am  not 
mistaken,  I  said,  'Excuse  me!'  or,  'I  beg  pardon!' 
She  cannot  have  heard  this  extremely  sensible  remark, 
however,  for  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  I  was  be- 
trothed. The  next  day  I  was  determined  to  put  an 
end  to  such  nonsense,  and  I  sat  down  at  my  writing. 


"O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  211 

table — confound  it  all !  I  never  was  great  with  the  pen, 
and  the  model  of  such  a  letter  as  I  wanted  to  write 
was  not  to  be  found  in  any  '  Complete  Letter- Writer.' 
Everything  I  tried  to  put  on  paper  seemed  to  me  so 
terribly  indelicate  and  rough,  and  so  I  determined  to 
tell  the  mother.  I  meant  to  bring  forward  a  previous 
and  binding  attachment ;  to  plead  in  my  excuse  the 
superlative  charms  of  the  Baroness  Paula — oh,  I  had 
it  all  splendidly  planned ;  but  the  old  Baroness  never 
let  me  open  my  lips,  and  so  matters  came  to  be  ar- 
ranged as  you  find  them." 

Through  the  open  glass  doors  of  the  dining-room, 
across  the  flower-beds,  comes  the  faint  voice  of  the  old 
piano.  But  it  is  no  longer  echoing  the  '  Cloches  du  Mo- 
nastere,'  but  a  wailing  canzonetta  by  some  popular  local 
composer  upon  which  the  youngest  Leskjewitsch  is  ex- 
pending a  most  unnecessary  amount  of  banging  upon 
keys  and  pressing  of  pedals.  With  a  grimace  Harry 
stops  his  ears.  Treurenberg  looks  very  grave. 

"  You  do  not,  then,  intend  to  marry  Paula?" 

"  God  forbid !"  Harry  exclaims. 

"  Then," — Lato  bites  his  lip,  but  goes  on  calmly, — 
"  forgive  an  old  friend  who  is  aware  of  the  difficulty 
of  your  position,  for  the  disagreeable  remark, — but  if 
you  do  not  intend  to  marry  my  sister-in-law,  your 
conduct  with  regard  to  her  is  not  only  very  unbecoming 
but  also  positively  wrong." 

"  Why  ?"  Harry  asks,  crossly. 

"  Why  ?"  Lato  lifts  his  eyebrows.  "  Why,  because 
you  compromise  her  more  deeply  with  every  visit  you 
pay  her.  You  cannot  surely  deceive  yourself  as  to 


212  "0  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA  I" 

the  fact  that  upon  the  superficial  observer  you  produce 
the  impression  of  an  unusually  devoted  pair  of  lovers." 

"I  do  not  understand  how  you  can  say  such  a 
thing !"  Harry  exclaims,  angrily,  "  when  you  must 
have  seen " 

"  That  you  are  on  the  defensive  with  Paula,"  Treuren- 
berg  interrupts  him,  with  a  wan  smile.  "  Yes,  I  have 
seen  it." 

"  "Well,  she  ought  to  see  it  too,"  Harry  mutters. 

Lato  shrugs  his  shoulders. 

"  She  must  lose  patience  sooner  or  later,"  says  Harry. 

"  It  is  difficult  to  exhaust  the  patience  of  a  young 
woman  whose  sensibilities  are  not  very  delicate  and 
who  is  very  much  in  love,"  his  friend  replies.  "  You 
must  devise  some  other,  and — forgive  my  frankness — 
some  more  honest  and  straightforward  means  for  at- 
taining your  end." 

Harry  puffs  furiously  at  his  cigarette,  sending  a 
cloud  of  smoke  over  the  flower-bed.  "  Lato,  you  are 
rough  upon  me,  but  not  rougher  than  I  am  upon  myself. 
If  you  knew  how  degraded  I  feel  by  my  false  position, 
if  you  knew  how  the  whole  matter  weighs  upon  me, 
you  would  do  something  more  for  me  than  only  hold 
up  a  candle  by  the  light  of  which  I  perceive  more 
clearly  the  misery  of  my  position.  You  would " 

"What?"  Lato  asks,  disturbed. 

"  Help  me  I" 

Lato  looks  at  him  in  dismay  for  a  moment,  and  then 
stammers,  "  No,  Harry,  do  not  ask  it  of  me, — not  of 
me.  I  could  do  you  no  good.  They  never  would  let 
me  speak,  any  more  than  my  mother-in-law  would 


"O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA  I"  213 

allow  you  to  speak.  And  even  if  I  finally  prevailed 
upon  them  to  listen,  they  would  blame  me  for  the 
whole  affair,  would  believe  that  I  had  excited  your 
mind  against  the  family." 

"How  could  they  possibly  imagine  that  you  could 
conduct  yourself  so  towards  a  friend?"  Harry  asks, 
with  a  grim  smile. 

Lato  turns  his  head  aside. 

"  Then  you  will  not  do  me  this  service  ?" 

"  I  cannot !"  Treurenberg  murmurs,  faintly. 

"  I  might  have  known  it  1"  Harry  breaks  forth,  his 
eyes  flashing  with  indignant  scorn.  "You  are  the 
same  old  fellow,  the  very  same, — a  good  fellow  enough, 
yes,  sympathetic,  compassionate,  and,  as  long  as  you 
are  allowed  to  remain  perfectly  passive,  the  noblest  of 
men.  But  as  soon  as  anything  is  required  of  you, — if 
any  active  interference  is  called  for  at  your  hands, — 
there's  an  end  of  it.  You  simply  cannot, — you  would 
rather  die  than  rouse  yourself  to  any  energetic  action !" 

"  Perhaps  so,"  Lato  murmurs,  with  a  far-away  look 
in  his  eyes,  and  a  smile  that  makes  Harry's  blood  run 
cold. 

A  pause  ensues,  the  longest  of  the  many  pauses  that 
have  occurred  in  this  tete-d-tete. 

The  bees  seem  to  buzz  louder  than  ever.  A  dry, 
thirsty  wind  sighs  in  the  boughs  of  the  apple-tree; 
two  or  three  hard  green  apples  drop  to  the  ground. 
At  last  Treurenberg  gathers  himself  up. 

"You  must  take  me  as  I  am,"  he  says,  wearily; 
"  there  is  no  cutting  with  a  dull  knife.  I  cannot  pos- 
sibly enlighten  my  mother-in-law  as  to  the  true  state 


214  "O  THOU,  MF  AUSTRIA  I" 

of  your  feelings.  It  would  do  no  good,  and  it  would 
make  an  infernal  row.  But  I  will  give  you  one  piece 
of  good  advice " 

Before  he  is  able  to  finish  his  sentence  his  attention 
is  arrested  by  a  perfect  babel  of  sounds  from  the 
dining-room.  The  piano  music  is  hushed,  its  discord 
merged  into  the  angry  wail  of  a  shrieking  feminine 
voice  and  the  rough,  broken,  changing  tones  of  a  lad, 
— the  rebellious  pupil,  Vladimir  Leskjewitsch.  The 
hurly-burly  is  so  outrageous  that  every  one  is  roused 
to  investigate  it.  Countess  Zriny  rushes  in,  with  short, 
waddling  steps,  the  paint-brush  with  which  she  has 
been  mending  St.  John's  robe  still  in  her  hand ;  Hed- 
wig  rushes  in ;  Harry  and  Lato  rush  in. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?    What  is  the  matter  ?" 

"You  poured  that  water  on  the  keys  intentionally, 
to  prevent  your  playing,"  the  teacher  angrily  declares 
to  her  pupil. 

"  I  do  not  deny  it,"  Vladimir  rejoins,  loftily. 

The  spectators  suppress  a  smile,  and  are  all,  as  is, 
alas  I  so  frequently  the  case,  on  the  side  of  the  culprit, 
a  tall,  overgrown  lad  of  about  fourteen,  with  a  hand- 
some dark  face,  large  black  eyes,  a  short,  impertinent 
nose,  and  full,  well-formed  lips.  With  hands  thrust 
deep  into  the  pockets  of  his  blue  jacket,  he  gravely 
surveys  the  circle,  and  tosses  his  head  defiantly. 

"You  hear  him!  you  hear  him!"  Fraulein  Laut 
screams,  turning  to  the  by-standers.  Then,  approach- 
ing Vladimir,  she  asks,  angrily,  "And  how  can  you 
justify  such  conduct?" 

Vladimir  scans  her  with  majestic  disdain.     "How 


"O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  215 

can  you  justify  your  having  ruined  all  my  pleasure  in 
music?"  he  asks,  in  a  tragic  tone,  and  with  a  bom- 
bastic flourish  of  his  hand.  "  That  piano  has  been  my 
dear  friend  from  childhood  1" — he  points  feelingly  to 
the  instrument,  which  is  yellow  with  age,  has  thin, 
square  legs,  and  six  pedals,  the  use  of  which  no  one 
has  ever  yet  fathomed, — "yes,  my  friend!  And  to- 
day I  hate  it  so  that  I  have  well-nigh  destroyed  it ! 
Fraulein  Laut,  justify  that." 

"Must  I  be  subjected  to  this  insolence?"  groans  the 
teacher. 

"Vladimir,  go  to  your  room!"  Harry  orders,  with 
hardly  maintained  gravity. 

Vladimir  departs  with  lofty  self-possession.  The 
teacher  turns  contemptuously  from  those  present,  es- 
pecially from  Harry,  who  tries  to  appease  her  with  a 
few  courteous  phrases.  With  a  skilful  hand  she  takes 
the  piano  apart,  dismembers  the  key-board,  and  spreads 
the  hammers  upon  sheets  of  tin  brought  for  her  from 
the  kitchen  by  Blasius,  the  old  servant,  that  the  wet, 
swollen  wood  may  be  dried  before  the  fire. 

" Take  care  lest  there  be  an  auto-da-fe"  Harry  calls 
after  her.  Without  deigning  to  reply,  she  vanishes 
with  the  bowels  of  the  piano. 

Blasius,  meanwhile,  with  imperturbable  composure, 
has  spread  the  table  for  the  evening  meal  at  one  end 
of  the  spacious  room,  in  which  there  is  now  diffused  an 
agreeable  odour  of  fresh  biscuits.  A  mountain  of 
reddish-yellow  almond  cakes  is  flanked  on  one  side  by 
a  plate  of  appetizing  rye  bread,  on  the  other  by  butter 
garnished  with  ice  and  cresses.  There  is  a  fruit-basket 


216  "0  THOU,  Mr  AUSTRIA!" 

at  either  end  of  the  tahle,  filled  with  peaches,  early 
grapes,  and  all  kinds  of  ripe  green  and  purple  plums, 
while  a  bowl  of  cut  glass  holds  whipped  cream  cooled 
in  ice.  Finally,  old  Blasius  brings  in  a  tray  fairly 
bending  beneath  the  burden  of  various  pitchers  and 
flagons,  the  bewildering  number  of  which  is  due  to  the 
fact  that  at  Komaritz  the  whims  of  all  are  consulted, 
and  consequently  each  one  orders  something  different, 
be  it  only  a  different  kind  of  cream. 

"  As  of  old,  no  one  is  in  danger  at  Komaritz  of  death 
from  starvation,"  Lato  remarks,  smiling. 

"  Help  us  to  be  rid  of  the  provision,"  Harry  says. 

Hedwig  repeats  the  invitation  rather  affectedly,  but 
Lato,  looking  at  his  watch,  discovers  that  he  has  already 
overstayed  his  time  by  an  hour. 

All  express  regret,  and  bid  him  farewell. 

"  And  the  good  advice  you  were  about  to  give  me  ?" 
Harry  says,  interrogatively,  as  he  takes  leave  of  his 
friend,  having  accompanied  him  to  the  gate  of  the 
court-yard. 

"  Cut  short  your  leave  of  absence ;  go  away,"  Lato 
replies.  "You  will  at  least  be  relieved  for  the  time 
from  any  necessity  for  dissimulation,  and  such  affairs 
are  better  adjusted  by  letter." 

Harry  gazes  gloomily  into  space ;  Lato  springs  into 
the  saddle.  "  Adieu  1"  he  calls  out,  and  is  gone. 


«O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  217 

CHAPTER   XVI. 

LATO   TKEUEENBEEQ. 

DINQ-DONO — ding-dong !  the  Angelus  bells  are  ringing 
through  the  evening  air  with  their  message  of  rest  for 
weary  mortals. 

The  long  shadows  of  the  trees  grow  paler,  and  vanish, 
taking  with  them  all  the  glory  of  the  world  and  leaving 
only  a  dull,  borrowed  twilight  to  hover  above  the  earth. 

The  sun  has  set.  Ding-dong !  rings  the  bell  of  Ko- 
maritz,  near  at  hand,  as  Lato  rides  past ;  the  bells  of 
the  other  villages  echo  the  sound  dreamily,  to  have  their 
notes  tossed  back  by  the  bells  of  the  lonely  chapels  on 
the  mountain-sides  across  the  steel-gray  stream,  whose 
waters  glide  silently  on  ward.  Ding-dong!  each  answers 
to  all,  and  the  tired  labourer  rejoices  in  unison. 

The  hour  of  rest  has  come,  the  hour  when  families 
reassemble  after  the  pursuits  and  labours  of  the  day 
have  ceased  to  claim  and  separate  them, — when  mortals 
feel  more  warmly  and  sensibly  the  reality  of  family 
ties.  Thin  blue  smoke  is  curling  from  the  chimneys; 
here  and  there  a  woman  can  be  seen  standing  at  the 
door  of  a  cottage,  shading  her  eyes  with  her  hand  as 
she  looks  expectantly  down  the  road.  Upon  the  door- 
step of  a  poor  hut  sits  a  brown,  worn  labourer,  dirty 
und  ragged,  about  to  eat  his  evening  meal  with  a  leaden 
spoon  from  an  earthen  bowl ;  a  young  woman  crouches 
beside  him,  with  her  back  against  the  door-post,  content 
K  19 


218  "O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA  I" 

and  silent,  while  a  chubby  child,  with  bare  legs  some- 
what bowed,  and  a  curly  head,  leans  against  his  knee 
and,  with  its  mouth  open  in  expectation,  peeps  into 
the  earthen  bowl.  The  father  smiles,  and  from  time 
to  time  thrusts  a  morsel  between  the  fresh,  rosy  lips. 
Then  he  puts  aside  the  bowl  and  takes  the  little  fellow 
upon  his  knee.  It  is  a  pretty  child,  and — perhaps  in 
honour  of  the  father's  return  home — wonderfully  clean, 
but  even  were  this  not  the  case Most  of  the  chil- 
dren tumbling  about  before. the  huts  on  this  sultry 
August  evening  are  neither  pretty  nor  clean ;  they  are 
dirty,  ragged,  dishevelled  j  many  are  sickly,  and  some 
are  crippled ;  but  there  is  hardly  one  among  them  to 
whom  this  hour  does  not  bring  a  caress. 

An  atmosphere  of  mutual  human  sympathy  seems 
to  brood  in  silence  above  the  resting  earth,  while  tho 
bells  ring  on,— ding-dong,  ding-dong. 

Lato  has  left  the  village  behind  him,  and  is  trotting 
along  the  road  beneath  the  tall  walnuts.  The  noise  of 
wagons,  heavily  laden  with  the  harvest,  and  the  tramp 
of  men  upon  the  road  fall  upon  his  ear,— everything  is 
going  home. 

There  is  a  languor  in  the  aromatic  summer  air,  some- 
what that  begets  in  every  human  being  a  desire  for 
companionship,  a  longing  to  share  the  burden  of  exist- 
ence with  another.  Even  the  flowers  seem  to  bend 
their  heads  nearer  to  one  another. 

Now  the  bells  are  hushed,  the  road  is  deserted ;  Lato 
alone  is  still  pursuing  his  way  home.  Home?  Is  it 
possible  that  he  has  accustomed  himself  to  call  his 
mother-in-law's  castle  home?  In  many  a  hotel — at 


"0  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  219 

"The  Lamb,"  for  example,  in  Yienna — he  has  felt 
much  more  at  home.  Where,  then,  is  his  home  ?  He 
vainly  asks  himself  this  question.  Has  he  ever  had  a 
home? 

The  question  is  still  unanswered.  His  thoughts 
wander  far  back  into  the  past,  and  find  nothing, — not 
even  a  few  tender  memories.  Poor  Lato!  He  recalls 
his  earliest  years,  his  childhood.  His  parents  were  con- 
sidered the  handsomest  couple  in  Austria.  The  Count 
was  fair,  tall,  slender,  with  an  apparent  delicacy  of 
frame  that  concealed  an  amount  of  physical  strength 
for  which  he  was  famous,  and  with  nobly-chiselled 
features.  His  duels  and  his  love-affairs  were  numer- 
ous. He  was  rashly  brave,  and  irresistible ;  so  poor  an 
accountant  that  he  always  allowed  his  opponents  to 
reckon  up  his  gains  at  play,  but  when  his  turn  came 
to  pay  a  debt  of  honour  he  was  never  known  to  make 
an  error  in  a  figure.  It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  men- 
tion that  his  gambling  debts  were  the  only  ones  the 
payment  of  which  he  considered  at  all  important.  He 
was  immensely  beloved  by  his  subordinates, — his  ser- 
vants, his  horses,  and  his  dogs ;  he  addressed  them  all 
with  the  German  "  thou,"  and  treated  them  all  with  the 
same  good-humoured  familiarity.  He  was  thought 
most  urbane,  and  was  never  guilty  of  any  definite  in- 
tentional annoyance;  but  he  suffered  from  a  certain 
near-sightedness.  He  recognized  as  fellow-mortals  only 
those  fellow-mortals  who  occupied  the  same  social 
plane  with  himself;  all  others  were  in  his  eyes  simply 
population, — the  masses. 

There  is  little  to  tell  of  his  wife,  save  that  she  was 


220  "O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!" 

a  brilliant  brunette  beauty,  with  very  loud  manners 
and  a  boundless  greed  of  enjoyment.  She  petted  little 
Lato  like  a  lapdog ;  but  one  evening,  just  as  she  was 
dressed  for  a  ball,  she  was  informed  that  the  child 
had  been  taken  violently  ill  with  croup,  whereupon 
she  flew  into  a  rage  with  those  who  had  been  so 
thoughtless  and  unfeeling  as  to  tell  her  such  a  thing 
at  so  inopportune  a  moment.  Her  carriage  was  an- 
nounced ;  she  let  it  wait  while  she  ran  up-stairs  to  the 
nursery,  kissed  the  gasping  little  patient,  exclaimed, 
with  a  lifted  forefinger,  "  Be  a  good  boy,  my  darling ; 
don't  die  while  mamma  is  at  the  ball  I"  and  vanished. 

The  little  fellow  was  good  and  did  not  die.  As  a 
reward,  his  mother  gave  him  the  largest  and  hand- 
somest rocking-horse  that  was  to  be  found  in  Yienna. 
Such  was  the  Countess  Treurenberg  as  a  mother ;  and 
as  a  wife — well,  Hans  Treurenberg  was  satisfied  with 
her,  and  her  behaviour  was  no  one  else's  affair.  The 
couple  certainly  got  along  together  admirably.  They 
never  were  seen  together  except  when  they  received 
guests. 

Peace  to  her  ashes!  The  Countess  paid  a  heavy 
price  for  her  short-lived  joys.  When  scarcely  twenty- 
six  years  old,  she  was  attacked  by  a  mortal  disease. 
Her  condition  was  all  the  more  painful  because  she 
persisted  in  concealing  her  malady  from  the  world, 
even  denying  its  existence.  Up  to  the  last  she  went 
into  society,  and  she  died  in  full  dress,  diamonds  and 
all,  in  a  glare  of  light,  on  a  lounge  in  her  dressing-room. 

The  widower  at  first  took  her  death  so  terribly  to 
heart  that  his  associates  remarked  upon  it. 


"O  THOU,  MF  AUSTRIA!"  221 

"Treurenberg  is  really  a  very  good  fellow  1"  they 
Baid,  and  so  he  was. 

For  a  time  he  kept  little  Lato  with  him  constantly. 
Even  on  the  evenings  when  gambling  was  going  on,  and 
they  played  long  and  high  at  Hans  Treurenberg's,  the 
boy  was  present.  When  hardly  twelve  years  old  he 
was  fully  initiated  into  the  mysteries  of  all  games  of 
chance.  He  would  sit  silent  and  quiet  until  far  into 
the  night,  watching  the  course  of  the  game,  trembling 
with  excitement  at  any  sudden  turn  of  luck.  And  how 
proud  he  was  when  he  was  allowed  to  take  a  hand ! 
He  played  extremely  well  for  his  age,  and  his  luck 
was  constant.  His  father's  friends  made  merry  over 
his  gambling  ability.  His  father  would  pat  his  cheeks, 
stroke  his  hair  off  his  forehead,  take  his  face  between 
his  hands,  and  kiss  him.  Then,  with  his  fingers  be- 
neath the  lad's  chin,  he  would  turn  his  face  this  way 
and  that,  calling  his  guests'  attention  to  the  boy's 
beauty,  to  his  eyes  sparkling  with  eagerness,  to  his 
flushed  cheeks.  Then  he  would  kiss  the  boy  again, 
make  him  drink  a  glass  of  champagne,  and  send  him 
to  bed. 

Then  was  sown  the  seed  of  the  evil  passion  which 
was  in  after-years  to  cause  Lato  so  many  an  hour  of 
bitter  suffering.  Calm,  almost  phlegmatic,  with  regard 
to  all  else,  as  soon  as  he  touched  a  card  his  excitement 
was  intense,  however  he  might  manage  to  conceal  it. 

"When  Count  Hans  grew  tired  of  the  constant  com- 
panionship of  his  son,  he  freed  himself  from  it  after  a 
perfectly  respectable  fashion.  He  sent  him  to  Prague, 
a  city  renowned  for  the  stolidity  of  its  institutions, 

19* 


222  "0  THOU,  MF  AUSTRIA!" 

committing  him  to  the  care  of  relatives,  and  of  a  pro- 
fessor who  undertook  to  supply  the  defects  of  the  boy's 
neglected  education.  When  Lato  was  eighteen  he 
entered  a  regiment  of  hussars. 

Hereafter,  if  the  father  took  but  little  pains  about 
his  son,  he  certainly  showed  him  every  kindness, — paid 
his  debts,  and  laughed  while  he  admired  the  young 
man's  mad  pranks.  Moreover,  he  really  loved  him, 
which  did  not,  however,  hinder  him  from  contriving 
to  have  Lato  declared  of  age  at  twenty,  that  the  young 
fellow  might  have  possession  of  his  maternal  inherit- 
ance, since  he  himself  needed  money. 

It  was  at  this  time  that  the  elder  Treurenberg's  view 
of  life  and  the  world  underwent  a  remarkable  change. 
He  became  a  Liberal,  and  this  not  only  in  a  political 
sense,  but  socially,  a  much  rarer  transformation.  He 
appeared  frequently  at  the  tables  of  wealthy  men  of 
business,  where  he  was  valued  not  merely  as  an  effec- 
tive aristocratic  decoration,  but  as  a  really  charming 
companion.  His  liberal  views  took  on  more  magnifi- 
cent dimensions :  he  announced  himself  a  heretic  with 
regard  to  the  exclusiveness  of  the  Austrian  aristocracy, 
smiled  at  the  folly  of  Austrian  court  etiquette,  and 
then,  one  fine  day  he  made  friends  with  the  wealthy 
parvenu,  Conte  Capriani,  and,  throwing  overboard  as 
useless  ballast  impeding  free  action  the  '  noblesse  oblige' 
principle,  he  devoted  himself  blindly  and  with  en- 
thusiasm to  stock-gambling.  The  result  was  hardly 
encouraging.  "When  Lato  applied  to  his  father  one  day 
for  a  considerable  sum  of  money,  it  was  not  to  be  had. 
Melancholy  times  for  the  Treurenbcrgs  ensued ;  thanks, 


"O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  223 

however,  to  the  friendship  of  Conte  Capriani,  who 
sometimes  helped  him  to  a  really  profitable  trans- 
action, Count  Hans  was  able  to  keep  his  head  above 
water.  And  he  continued  to  hold  it  as  high  as  ever, 
to  preserve  the  same  air  of  distinction,  to  smile  with 
the  same  amiable  cordiality  in  which  there  was  a  spice 
of  hauteur ;  in  a  word,  he  preserved  the  indefinable 
prestige  of  his  personality,  which  made  it  impossible 
that  Conte  Capriani's  demeanour  towards  him  should 
ever  partake  of  the  nature  of  condescension.  The 
only  thing  required  of  Count  Hans  by  Capriani  was 
that  he  should  spend  a  couple  of  weeks  with  him  every 
year  in  the  hunting-season.  This  the  Count  seemed 
quite  willing  to  do,  and  he  therefore  appeared  every 
year,  in  August  or  October,  at  Heinrichsdorf,  an  estate 
in  "West  Hungary,  where  Capriani  had  preferred  to 
live  since  his  affair  with  young  Count  Lodrin  had  mado 
his  castle  of  Schneeburg  impossible  for  him  as  a  place 
of  residence. 

One  year  the  Count  asked  his  son  to  accompany  him 
to  Heinrichsdorf. 

Will  Lato  ever  forget  the  weeks  he  spent  there,  the 
turning-point  as  they  were  of  his  existence?  How 
foreign  and  tiresome,  how  hard  and  bald,  it  all  was  I 
how  uncomfortable,  how  uncongenial ! — the  furniture, 
among  which  here  and  there,  as  was  the  fashion,  some 
costly  antique  was  displayed ;  the  guests,  among  whom 
were  various  representatives  of  historic  Austrian  no- 
bility; the  Conte's  secretary,  a  choleric  Hungarian, 
who  concealed  the  remnant  of  a  pride  of  rank  which 
ill  became  his  present  position  beneath  an  aggressive 


224  "0  THOU,  MT  AUSTRIA!" 

cynicism,  and  who  was  wont  to  carry  in  his  pocket, 
when  he  went  to  walk,  a  little  revolver,  with  which  he 
shot  at  sparrows  or  at  the  flies  creeping  upon  some 
wall,  by  way  perhaps  of  working  off  the  bitterness 
of  his  soul.  There,  too,  was  the  master  of  the  house, 
showing  the  same  frowning  brow  to  all  whom  he  met, 
contradicting  all  with  the  same  rudeness,  hunting  to 
earth  any  stray  poetic  sentiment,  and  then,  after  a  vio- 
lent explosion  of  pure  reason,  withdrawing  gloomily 
to  his  cabinet,  where  he  could  give  himself  over  to  his 
two  passions, — that  for  money-making,  and  that  for 
setting  the  world  at  naught. 

The  only  person  in  the  assemblage  whom  Lato  found 
attractive  was  the  mistress  of  the  mansion,  with  whom 
he  often  talked  for  hours,  never  ceasing  to  wonder  at 
the  melancholy  grace  and  quiet  dignity  of  her  bearing, 
as  well  as  at  the  well-nigh  morbid  delicacy  and  high 
moral  tone  of  her  sentiments. 

Above  all  did  Lato  dislike  those  among  the  guests 
of  a  like  rank  with  his  own,  men  who  were  like  him- 
self in  money  difficulties,  and  who  hovered  about  this 
deity  of  the  stock  market  in  hopes  of  obtaining  his 
blessing  upon  their  speculations. 

Count  Hans  moved  among  all  these  aristocratic  and 
un-aristocratic  luminaries  with  the  same  unchanging 
grace  that  carried  him  victoriously  over  all  annoyances, 
— always  genial  and  courtly;  but  the  son  could  not 
emulate  his  father's  ease  of  mind  and  manner;  he  felt 
depressed  and  humiliated. 

Then  the  Baroness  Harfink  and  her  daughters  made 
their  appearance.  The  two  striking,  pleasure-loving 


"O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  225 

girls  had  an  enlivening  effect  upon  the  wearied  assem- 
blage. 

Paula  was  the  cleverer  of  the  two,  but  she  talked  too 
much,  which  was  tiresome,  and  then  she  had  a  reputa- 
tion for  learning,  which  frightened  men  away.  Selina, 
on  the  other  hand,  knew  how  to  veil  her  lack  of  clever- 
ness beneath  an  interesting  taciturnity;  she  had  a 
fashion  of  slowly  lifting  her  eyelids  which  appealed  to 
a  man's  fancy.  "With  a  degree  of  prudence  frequently 
displayed  by  rather  dull  girls,  she  forbore  to  appeal  to 
the  crowd,  and  concentrated  her  efforts  to  charm  upon 
Lato.  She  accompanied  him  in  the  pheasant-shooting 
parties,  took  lessons  from  him  in  lawn-tennis, — in  a 
white  dress,  her  loosened  hair  gleaming  in  the  sunlight, 
— or  simply  lay  quietly  back  in  a  rocking-chair  in  the 
shade  in  front  of  the  castle,  gazing  at  him  with  her 
large,  half-closed  eyes,  while  he,  half  in  jest,  half  in 
earnest,  said  all  sorts  of  pretty  things. 

There  was  always  play  in  the  evenings  at  the  castle, 
and  usually  very  high  play.  The  atmosphere  about 
the  gaming-tables  was  hardly  agreeable,  and  the  Conte 
moved  about  among  them,  taking  no  share  in  such 
"  silly  waste  of  time,"  while  every  one  else  was  eager 
to  win.  Lato  took  part  in  the  unedifying  pastime, 
and  at  first  fortune  befriended  him ;  then  he  lost.  His 
losses  embarrassed  him,  and  he  withdrew  from  play- 
ing. He  was  not  the  only  one  to  avoid  the  gambling- 
tables  after  a  short  trial  of  luck ;  several  gentlemen 
followed  his  example.  The  Conte  took  triumphant 
note  of  this,  and  arranged  a  party  for  fivo-kreutzer 
whist,  in  which  he  joined. 
P 


226  "0  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA;" 

Lato  bit  his  lip.  Never  before  had  his  unfortunate 
pecuniary  circumstances  so  weighed  upon  him.  The 
thirst  for  gold — the  prevailing  epidemic  at  Heinrichs- 
dorf — demanded  a  fresh  victim. 

There  had  been  a  hunting- dinner;  Conte  Capriani's 
wine  had  been  unusually  fiery;  every  one  was  gay; 
Heinrichsdorf  could  remember  no  such  brilliant  fes- 
tivity. The  windows  of  the  drawing-room  where  the 
company  were  assembled  were  open  and  looked  out 
upon  the  park.  The  intoxicating  fragrance  of  the 
sultry  August  night  was  wafted  into  the  room ;  the 
stars  sparkled  above  the  black  tree-tops,  twinkling 
restlessly,  like  deceitful  will-o'-the-wisps,  in  the  blue 
vault  of  heaven ;  the  sweet,  wild  music  of  a  band  of 
Hungarian  gypsies  came  floating  into  the  apartment 
with  the  fragrance  of  the  night.  Selina  looked  won- 
derfully beautiful  on  that  evening, — a  sultana-like 
beauty,  nothing  more,  but  she  harmonized  with  the 
spell  of  the  August  night.  She  wore  a  red  crape 
gown,  red  as  flickering  fire,  red  as  benumbing  poppy- 
blossoms,  very  decolletee,  and  its  decided  colour  height- 
ened the  white,  pearly  lustre  of  the  girl's  neck  and 
arms.  The  lines  about  her  mouth  had  not  then  settled 
into  a  stereotyped  smile ;  her  nose  was  not  sharp ;  the 
sheen  of  her  hair  had  not  been  dimmed  by  perpetual 
powdering.  Essentially  commonplace  as  she  was,  for 
the  moment  there  was  about  her  a  mingling  of  lan- 
guor and  excitement,  which  betrays  an  accelerated 
movement  of  the  heart.  Selina  Harfink  was  in  love. 
Lato  was  perfectly  aware  of  it,  and  that  she  was  in 


«O  THOU,  MF  AUSTRIA!"  227 

love  with  him.  Ho  bestowed  but  little  thought  upon 
this  fact,  however.  What  could  come  of  it?  And  yet, 
whenever  he  was  with  her,  a  cold  shiver  ran  through 
him. 

The  mysterious  shades  of  night  were  invaded  by 
music  and  the  summer  breeze ;  wherever  Lato  was  he 
saw  that  red  gown.  A  hand  was  laid  upon  his  arm, 
and  when  he  turned  he  gazed  into  a  pair  of  eyes 
veiled  yet  glowing. 

"  Why  do  you  avoid  me  ?"  Selina  whispered. 

"  Southern  Eoses !"  one  of  the  gentlemen  standing 
near  a  window  called  to  the  musicians,  and  immediately 
there  floated  out  into  the  night,  to  mingle  with  the 
low  whisper  of  the  linden  leaves,  the  notes  of  the  first 
bars  of  that  most  beguiling  of  all  Strauss's  beguiling 
waltzes. 

He  danced  with  her,  and  then — almost  rudely — he 
left  her.  It  was  the  only  time  he  had  danced  with  her 
that  evening,  and  now  he  left  the  room,  hurrying  away 
to  be  somewhere  where  that  red  dress  was  not  before 
his  eyes.  And  yet  he  had  the  sensation  of  overcoming 
himself,  of  denying  himself  at  least  a  pleasant  excite- 
ment. 

Why  ?    What  could  ever  come  of  it  ? 

For  the  first  time  in  several  days  he  joined  the 
gamesters.  He  played  high,  with  varying  luck,  but 
when  he  left  the  gaming-table  ho  carried  with  him  the 
consciousness  of  having  lost  more  than  he  was  at  present 
in  a  condition  to  pay. 

He  went  to  his  room  and  began  mechanically  to 
undress.  A  fever  seemed  burning  in  his  veins;  how 


228  "0  THOU,  MF  AUSTRIA!" 

Bultry  it  was  I  through  the  open  windows  he  could  see 
black  thunder-clouds  gathering  in  the  skies.  The  air 
was  damp  and  laden  with  a  fragrance  so  sweet  as  to 
be  almost  sickening.  A  low  murmur  sighed  among 
the  leaves  of  the  shrubbery  in  the  park, — melancholy, 
mysterious,  alluring,  yet  mingled  with  a  soft  plaint, 
breathing  above  the  late  summer  roses.  "Enjoy! 
enjoy !  life  is  brief  1"  He  turned  away,  lay  down,  and 
closed  his  eyes;  but  still  he  seemed  to  see  the  red 
dress.  He  could  not  think  of  marrying  her.  A  girl 
from  such  a  family  and  with  such  a  crowd  of  insuffer- 
able connections  1  Had  she  only  been  a  poor  little 
thing  whom  he  could  snatch  away  from  her  surround- 
ings; but  no,  if  he  married  her,  he  was  sufficiently 
clear  in  his  mind  for  the  moment  to  understand,  he 
must  adjust  himself  to  her  social  position.  The  power 
was  hers, — money ! 

Oh,  this  wretched  money !  At  every  turn  the  lack 
of  it  tormented  him;  he  had  tried  to  retrench,  to 
economize,  but  how  paltry  such  efforts  seemed  to  him ! 
What  a  good  use  he  could  make  of  it  if  he  had  it ! 
She  was  very  beautiful 

A  light  footfall  made  itself  heard  in  the  passage  out- 
side his  door.  Was  not  that  his  father's  step?  Lato 
asked  himself.  The  door  opened ;  Count  Hans  entered, 
straight,  tall,  and  slender,  with  haughty,  refined  features 
and  sparkling  blue  eyes,  very  bald,  very  gray ;  but 
what  vitality  and  energy  he  showed  in  his  every  move- 
ment 1  At  this  moment  Lato  felt  a  great  admiration 
for  his  father,  beside  whom  he  himself  seemed  pitia- 
bly weak.  Ho  took  shame  to  himself;  what  would  hi? 


"O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA  I"  229 

father  say  could  he  know  of  the  ideas  which  he,  Lato 
Trourenberg,  had  just  been  entertaining? 

"Still  awake,  Lato?"  the  knightly  old  man  asked, 
kindly,  sitting  down  on  the  edge  of  his  son's  bed.  "  I 
saw  from  below  your  light  still  burning,  and  I  wanted 
to  ask  if  anything  were  troubling  you.  You  are  not 
wont  to  suffer  from  sleeplessness." 

Lato  was  touched,  and  doubly  ashamed  of  the  low, 
mean  way  of  extricating  himself  from  his  difficulties 
which  had  but  now  seemed  to  him  almost  possible. 

"  One's  thoughts  run  such  riot,  sometimes,"  he  mur- 
mured. 

"H'm!"    The  father  put  his  cigar  between  his  lips 
and  puffed  forth  a  cloud  of  smoke  to  float  upward  to 
the  ceiling.     "  I  think  you  lost  at  baccarat  to-night," 
he  remarked. 
«  Yes." 
"Much?" 

"More  than  I  can  pay  at  present,"  Lato  replied, 
with  a  weary  smile. 

"  As  if  that  were  of  any  moment  1"  Count  Hans  con- 
soled  him.  "  I  am  at  your  service,  and  am,  besides, 
your  debtor." 

"  But,  father " 

"Yes,  yes,  I  tell  you  it  is  so.  I  am  your  debtor. 
Do  you  think  I  forget  it?  Indeed  I  do  not.  I  am 
sorry  that  I  cannot  help  it ;  but  'tis  the  fault  of  cir- 
cumstances. The  estates  yield  absolutely  nothing; 
they  require  money  enough,  but  when  it  comes  to 
looking  for  any  return  I  look  in  vain.  No  one  who 
has  not  tried  it  knows  what  a  sinking-fund  land  is. 

20 


230  "O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!" 

It  cannot  go  on  thus;  we  must  make  a  fundamental 
effort,  or  we  shall  be  ruined !" 

"  Yes,  father,"  Lato  murmured,  "  we  must  be  in  earn- 
est, instead  of  enjoying  ourselves  thoughtlessly  and 
with  a  dread  of  work.  We  have  lost  our  force ;  we 
have  been  faithless  to  our  principles;  we  must  begin  a 
new  existence,  you  and  I."  As  he  uttered  these  high- 
sounding  words,  Lato  had  the  unpleasant  sensation  of 
repeating  something  learned  by  rote;  the  big  phrases 
confused  him ;  he  was  embarrassed  by  the  conscious- 
ness of  his  father's  too  ready  satire.  Ho  looked  up  at 
him,  but  the  old  Count  did  not  seem  to  have  heard 
him.  This  was  a  relief;  he  sighed,  and  was  silent. 
Suddenly  the  red  dress  fluttered  before  his  eyes  again. 

Count  Hans  raised  his  head,  and  murmured,  "She 
looked  very  lovely  this  evening." 

"  Who  ?"  asked  Lato,  slowly.  He  did  not  need  to 
ask ;  he  knew  that  his  father  had  shared  his  thoughts. 
He  was  terribly  startled.  Something  seemed  to  be 
crumbling  away  which  he  had  believed  would  always 
stand  firm. 

"  Selina,  of  course, — the  only  really  pretty  woman  in 
the  house,"  said  Count  Hans.  "Her  beauty  has  ex- 
panded wonderfully  in  the  last  few  days.  It  is  always 
becoming  to  pretty  women  to  be  in  love." 

"  In  love  ?"  Lato  repeated,  his  throat  contracted,  his 
tongue  -dry. 

The  old  Count  laughed.  "  Ah,  you're  a  sly  fellow, 
Lato." 

Lato  was  mute. 

His  father  continued:  "They  are  all  jealous  of  you, 


"0  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA  I"  231 

Lato.  Did  you  not  see  what  happened  this  evening 
in  the  conservatory,  just  after  dinner?  Pistasch 
Kamenz  proposed  to  her,  and  she  refused  him.  He 
told  me  of  it  himself,  and  made  light  of  it ;  but  he 
\vas  hard  hit.  I  can  quite  understand  it.  She  is  an 
exceedingly  beautiful  woman  ;  she  does  not  carry  her- 
self well,  'tis  true, — with  women  of  her  class  the  phys- 
ical training  is  sure  to  be  neglected, — but  all  that  can 
be  changed." 

Lato  was  still  mute.  So,  then,  Pistasch  Kamenz 
had  tried  that  of  which  he,  Lato,  had  been  ashamed, 
and  had  failed.  He  should  not  fail. 

The  old  Count  waited  a  moment,  and  then  went  on : 
"  I  am  sorry  for  Kamenz ;  the  match  would  have  been 
an  excellent  one  for  him ;  he  would  have  settled  down." 

"  Settled  down — upon  his  wife's  money !"  Lato  mut- 
tered, without  looking  at  his  father. 

"  Is  there  anything  new  in  that  ?"  exclaimed  the 
Count,  with  unruffled  composure.  "A  man  of  hon- 
our can  take  nothing  from  a  woman  whom  he  loves, 
but  everything  from  his  wife.  'Tis  an  old  rule,  and 
it  is  comical," — Count  Hans  laughed  softly, — "  how 
here  in  Austria  we  require  that  a  rich  wife  should 
always  belong  to  the  same  sphere  with  her  husband  ; 
ho  is  forgiven  for  a  mesalliance  only  if  he  marries  a 
beggar.  It  is  pure  folly!  We  shall  never  amount  to 
anything  unless  wo  toss  aside  the  entire  burden  of 
prejudice  which  we  drag  about  with  us.  It  weighs  us 
down ;  we  cannot  keep  step  with  the  rest ;  how  can 
a  man  run  sheathed  in  mail  ?  With  the  exception  of 
a  few  magnates  among  us  who  are  able  to  enjoy  their 


232  "O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!" 

prestige,  we  are  wretchedly  off.  We  spend  our  lives 
sacrificing  ourselves  for  a  position  which  we  cannot 
maintain  respectably;  we  pamper  a  chimera  to  be 
devoured  by  it  in  the  end.  Most  of  all  do  I  admire 
the  bourgeoisie,  whom  we  impress,  and  whose  servility 
keeps  bright  the  nimbus  about  our  heads.  Bah !  we 
can  do  nothing  more  with  the  old  folly!  We  must 
mingle  in  the  fresh  life  of  the  present." 

"  Yes,"  Lato  muttered  again,  but  more  indistinctly 
than  at  first,  "we  ought  to  work,  to  achieve  some- 
what." 

Count  Hans  did  not,  perhaps,  hear  this  remark ;  at 
all  events  he  did  not  heed  it. 

"  All  the  huge  new  fortunes  in  England  marry  into 
the  aristocracy,"  he  said. 

Outside,  the  same  strange  alluring  murmur  breathed 
above  the  thirsty  flowers;  the  breeze  of  the  coming 
storm  streamed  into  the  room. 

"To  marry  a  woman  for  the  sake  of  her  money  is 
detestable,"  Count  Hans  began  afresh,  and  his  voice 
was  almost  as  soft  and  wooing  as  that  of  the  summer 
night  outside ;  "  but,  good  heavens  1  why  should  one  re- 
fuse to  marry  a  girl  whom  he  loves  just  because  she  is 
rich?" 

He  paused.    Lato  had  closed  his  eyes. 

"Are  you  asleep  ?"  his  father  murmured. 

Lato  shook  his  head,  without  speaking.  The  old 
Count  arose,  extinguished  the  candle  on  the  table,  and 
softly  withdrew. 


O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  233 


CHAPTER   XVII. 

MISMATED. 

ABOUT  four  months  afterwards  Lato  stood  with  Se- 
lina  Harfink  before  the  altar,  in  a  large  splendidly- 
decorated  church  filled  with  a  crowd  of  people,  among 
whom  Lato,  as  he  walked  towards  the  altar,  mechani- 
cally sought  some  familiar  face, — at  first  in  vain.  At 
last  he  found  some  one, — his  old  English  teacher;  then 
a  horse-dealer  with  whom  he  had  had  transactions ;  and 
then  there  in  the  background — how  could  they  have 
escaped  him  ? — about  a  dozen  ladies  of  his  own  circle. 
Some  of  them  held  their  eye-glasses  to  their  eyes,  then 
crowded  together  and  whispered  among  themselves. 
He  turned  away  his  head. 

How  dared  they  whisper  about  him !  He  had  nob 
sold  himself;  he  was  marrying  a  girl  whom  he  loved, 
who  was  accidentally  rich  ! 

The  long  train  moved  slowly  up  to  the  altar.  Lato 
felt  as  if  he  were  dragging  after  him  a  burden  that  grew 
heavier  with  every  step.  He  was  glad  to  be  able  to 
kneel  down  before  the  priest.  He  looked  at  his  bride. 
She  knelt  beside  him,  brilliantly  beautiful,  glowing 
with  passion,  supremely  content.  In  vain  did  he  look 
for  the  shimmer  of  tears  in  her  eyes,  for  a  trace  of 
virginal  shyness  in  her  features,  for  aught  that  could 
arouse  sympathy  and  tenderness.  No ;  about  her  full 

20» 


234  "O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!" 

rod  lips  there  was  the  tremor  of  gratified  vanity  and 
of  triumphant — love  I  Love  ? 

From  her  face  Lato's  gaze  wandered  among  the 
wedding-guests.  Strangers, — all  strangers.  His  family 
was  represented  by  his  father  and  the  Countess  Zriny, 
'a  distant  cousin  of  Count  Hans,  who  had  once  been 
in  love  with  him.  Lato  shivered.  Solemn  music  re- 
sounded through  the  church.  Tears  rose  to  his  eyes. 
Suddenly  a  strange  wailing  sound  mingled  with  the 
strains  of  the  chant.  He  looked  up.  Behind  the  tall 
church  windows  fluttered  something  black,  formless, 
like  a  mourning  banner.  It  was  the  broken  top  of 
a  young  tree,  not  quite  torn  from  the  parent  stem, 
waving  to  and  fro  in  the  wind. 

And  then  the  priest  uttered  the  words  that  decided 
his  future  fate. 

Before  the  departure  of  the  young  couple,  and  whilst 
Selina  was  making  ready  for  their  journey,  Count  Hans 
had  an  opportunity  for  emotion.  He  paced  restlessly 
to  and  fro  in  the  room  where  with  Lato  he  was  awaiting 
the  bride,  trying  vainly  to  say  something  cheering  to 
the  bridegroom,  something  to  arouse  in  him  a  con- 
sciousness of  the  great  good  fortune  in  whjch  he  him- 
self was  a  sharer.  At  last  the  voices  of  the  bride  and 
her  friends  were  heard  approaching.  The  old  noble- 
man went  up  to  his  son,  laid  his  hands  tenderly  upon 
his  shoulders,  and  exclaimed,  "  Hold  up  your  head,  old 
fellow :  your  life  is  before  you,  your  life  is  before  you !" 

And  Lato  repeated,  "  My  life  is  before  me "  The 

next  instant  the  door  opened. 


»  O  THOU,  MF  A  USTRIA  /»'  235 

"  The  carriage  is  waiting !" 

The  last  words  that  Selina  said  to  her  friends  out  of 
the  window  of  the  carriage  just  before  driving  off 
were,  "Do  not  forget  to  send  me  the  newspapers,  if 
there  is  anything  in  them  about  our  marriage." 

The  horses  started,  the  carriage  rolled  on.  How 
swiftly  the  wheels  flew  over  the  stones  1  In  the  twi- 
light, illumined  only  by  the  glare  of  the  carriage  lamps, 
Lato  could  see  the  outline  of  Selina's  figure  as  she  sat 
beside  him,  and  the  pure  red  and  white  of  her  face, 
only  partially  concealed  by  her  veil.  He  put  his  arm 
around  her,  and  she  nestled  close  to  him  and  raised 
her  lips  to  his.  His  ardour  was  chilled  by  an  annoy- 
ing sensation  which  he  could  not  at  first  trace  to  its 
source.  It  was  produced  by  the  strong  perfume  which 
Selina  used.  It  was  the  same  perfume  that  had  been 
a  favourite  with  the  actress  who  had  been  Lato's  first 
love,  a  handsome,  fair  woman,  with  an  incomparable 
complexion.  He  was  suddenly  reminded  that  Selina 
looked  like  her,  and  it  vexed  him. 

Selina  had  long  since  forgotten  it, — women  almost 
always  forget  such  things, — but  in  the  early  times  of 
her  marriage  it  would  not  have  pleased  her  to  think  it 
a  "distinguished  one."  She  was  desperately  in  love 
with  Lato,  served  him  like  a  slave,  racked  what  brain 
she  had  to  prepare  surprises  for  him  in  the  way  of 
costly  gifts,  and  left  entirely  to  him  the  disposal  of 
her  property.  Not  a  penny  would  she  call  her  own. 
It  all  belonged  to  him, — all.  It  was  quite  touching  to 
see  her  penitent  air  when  she  applied  to  him,  whisper- 


236  "O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA  I" 

ing,  "I  am  a  terrible  spendthrift,  Lato.  Do  not  be 
angry ;  but  I  want  some  more  money.  Will  you  not 
pay  my  milliner's  bill  for  me  ?  And  then,  if  I  am  very 
good,  you'll  give  me  something  to  put  in  my  porto- 
monnaie, — a  hundred  guilders, — only  a  hundred  guild- 
ers, Lato  darling  ?" 

At  first  such  scenes  annoyed  him  terribly,  and  he 
tried  hard  to  prevent  them.  Then — well,  he  got  used 
to  them,  even  felt  flattered,  touched;  almost  forgot 
whence  came  the  money  that  was  now  so  abundant 
with  him, — believed,  at  all  events,  that  others  had 
forgotten  it, — and  played  the  lavish  husband  with  his 
wife,  bestowed  costly  gifts  upon  her,  and  was  pleased 
with  her  admiration  of  them. 

All  this  time  he  lived  in  a  kind  of  whirl.  He  had 
accustomed  himself  to  his  young  wife's  endearments, 
as  he  had  accustomed  himself  to  travel  with  a  train  of 
servants,  to  occupy  the  best  rooms  in  the  best  hotels, 
to  drink  the  best  wines,  to  smoke  the  best  cigars,  to 
have  enormous  bills  at  the  tailor's,  to  gratify  all  his 
expensive  tastes,  to  spend  time  in  devising  costly  plans 
for  the  future,  and,  half  involuntarily,  to  do  it  all  as  if 
ho  no  longer  remembered  a  time  when  he  had  been 
obliged  to  consider  well  every  outlay. 

In  after-years  his  cheeks  burned  when  he  recalled 
this  part  of  his  life,  but — there  was  no  denying  the 
fact — he  had  for  a  time  been  ostentatiously  extrava- 
gant, and  with  his  wife's  money.  Poor  Lato  1 

Two  years  the  whirl  lasted;  no  longer. 

At  first  he  had  tried  to  continue  in  the  service,  but 
the  hardships  of  a  military  life  became  burdensome  to 


"0  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA  I"  237 

him  as  he  yielded  to  the  new  sense  of  luxury,  and 
Selina,  for  her  part,  had  no  taste  for  the  annoyances 
that  fell  to  her  share  in  the  nomadic  life  of  a  soldier's 
wife.  He  resigned.  They  planned  to  purchase  an 
estate,  but  could  not  agree  upon  where  to  purchase; 
and  they  zigzagged  about,  travelling  from  Nice  to 
Rome,  and  from  Eome  to  Paris,  everywhere  cour- 
teously received  and  feted. 

Then  came  their  child.  Selina,  of  course,  passed 
the  time  of  her  confinement  in  Yienna,  to  be  under 
her  mother's  protection,  and  nearly  paid  for  her  child's 
life  with  her  own.  When  she  recovered,  her  entire 
nature  seemed  changed;  she  was  always  tired.  Her 
charm  had  fled.  Her  nose  grew  sharp,  there  were 
hard  lines  about  her  mouth,  her  face  became  thin, 
while  her  figure  broadened. 

And  her  feeling  for  Lato  underwent  a  fundamental 
alteration.  Hers  was  one  of  those  sensual,  cold-hearted 
natures  which,  when  the  first  tempest  of  passion  has 
subsided,  are  incapable  of  any  deeper  sentiment,  and 
her  tenderness  towards  her  husband  decreased  with 
astonishing  celerity.  Henceforth,  vanity  became  her 
sole  passion,  and  in  Vienna  she  was  best  able  to  satisfy 
it.  The  greatest  enjoyment  she  derived  from  her  for- 
eign travel  and  from  her  intercourse  with  distinguished 
people  lay  in  being  able  to  discourse  of  them  to  her 
Yienna  circle.  She  went  into  the  world  more  than 
ever, — the  world  which  she  had  known  from  child- 
hood,— and  dragged  Lato  with  her.  She  was  never 
weary  of  displaying  in  financial  society  her  new  title, 
her  distinguished  husband,  her  eccentric  Parisian  toilets. 


238  "O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA  I" 

Her  world  sufficed  her.  She  never  dreamed  of 
asking  admission  to  his  world.  He  made  several 
melancholy  attempts  to  introduce  his  wife  among  his 
relatives;  they  failed  lamentably.  No  one  had  any 
particular  objection  to  Selina.  Had  she  been  a  poor 
girl  all  would  have  vied  with  one  another  in  doing  some- 
thing for  her  "  for  dear  Lato's  sake."  But  to  receive 
all  that  loud,  vulgar,  ostentatious  Harfink  tribe,  no  one 
could  require  of  them, — not  even  the  spirit  of  the  age. 
Why  did  not  Lato  take  his  wife  to  the  country,  and 
separate  her  from  her  family  and  their  influence  ?  Then 
after  some  years,  perhaps It  was  such  an  unfortu- 
nate idea  to  settle  in  Vienna  with  his  wife ! 

Yes,  an  unfortunate  idea ! 

Wherever  he  showed  himself  with  his  wife,  at  tho 
theatre,  on  the  Prater,  everywhere,  his  acquaintances 
greeted  him  cordially  from  a  distance,  and  avoided  him 
as  if  he  had  been  stricken  with  a  contagious  disease. 
On  the  occasion  of  the  death  of  one  of  his  aunts,  he 
received  kind  letters  of  condolence  from  relatives  who 
lived  in  the  next  street ! 

Selina  was  not  in  the  slightest  degree  annoyed  by  all 
this.  It  always  had  been  so  in  Austria,  and  probably 
always  would  be  so.  She  had  expected  nothing  else. 
And  Lato, — what  had  he  expected?  ho  who  under- 
stood such  matters  better  than  she  did?  A  miracle, 
perhaps ;  at  least  an  exception  in  his  favour. 

His  life  in  Yienna  was  torture  to  him.  He  made 
front  against  his  former  world,  defied  it,  even  vilified 
it,  and  was  possessed  by  a  hungry  desire  for  what  he 
had  lost,  for  what  he  had  prized  so  little  when  it 


"  O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA  t"  239 

was  naturally  his  own.  If  he  could  but  have  found 
something  to  replace  what  he  had  resigned  1  Sincerity, 
earnestness,  a  deeper  grasp  of  life,  elevation  of  thought, 
— all  of  which  he  might  have  found  among  the  best 
of  the  bourgeoisie, — he  had  sufficient  intellect  and  refine- 
ment to  have  enjoyed.  Perhaps  under  such  influences 
there  was  stuff  in  him  of  a  kind  to  be  remodelled,  and 
he  might  have  become  a  useful,  capable  man.  But  the 
circle  in  which  he  was  forced  to  live  was  not  that  of 
the  true  bourgeoisie.  It  was  an  inorganic  mass  of  rich 
people  and  idlers  tossed  together,  all  with  titles  of 
yesterday,  who  cared  for  nothing  in  the  world  save 
money-getting  and  display, — a  world  in  which  the 
men  played  at  languid  dulness  and  the  women  at 
frivolity,  because  they  thought  it  'chic,'  in  which  all 
wanted  to  be  '  fast,'  to  make  a  sensation,  to  be  talked 
of  in  the  newspapers, — a  world  which,  with  ridiculous 
exclusiveness,  boasted  of  its  anti-Semitic  prejudices,  and 
in  which  the  money  acquired  with  such  unnatural  ce- 
lerity had  no  room  for  free  play,  so  that  the  golden 
calf,  confined  within  so  limited  an  arena,  cut  the  most 
extraordinary  capers.  These  people  spent  their  time 
in  perfecting  themselves  in  aristocratic  demeanour  and 
in  talking  alternately  of  good  manners,  elegant  toi- 
lets, and  refined  menus.  The  genuine  patrician  world 
of  trade  held  itself  aloof  from  this  tinsel  society,  or 
only  accidentally  came  into  contact  with  it. 

Lato's  was  a  very  unpleasant  experience.  The  few 
people  of  solid  worth  whom  he  met  at  his  mother-in- 
law's  avoided  him.  His  sole  pleasure  in  life  was  his 
little  sou,  who  daily  grew  plumper,  prettier,  merrier, 


240  "O  THOU,  MF  AUSTRIA!" 

He  would  stretch  out  his  arms  to  his  father  when 
the  merest  baby,  and  crow  with  delight.  What  a  joy 
it  was  for  Lato  to  clasp  the  little  creature  in  his 
arms  I 

The  boy  was  just  fifteen  months  old  when  the  first 
real  quarrel  took  place  between  Lato  and  his  wife,  and 
estranged  them  for  life. 

Hitherto  Lato  had  had  the  management  and  right 
of  disposal  of  his  wife's  property,  and  although  more 
than  one  disagreeable  remark  anent  his  extravagance 
had  fallen  from  her  lips  he  had  taken  pains  not  to  heed 
them.  But  one  day  he  bought  a  pair  of  horses  for 
which  he  had  been  longing,  paying  an  amateur  price 
for  them. 

He  was  so  delighted  with  his  purchase  that  he  im- 
mediately drove  the  horses  in  the  Prater  to  try  them. 
On  his  return  home  he  was  received  by  Selina  with  a 
very  cross  face.  She  had  heard  of  his  purchase,  and 
asked  about  the  horses. 

He  praised  them  with  enthusiasm.  Forgetting  for 
the  moment  all  the  annoyances  of  his  position,  he  cried, 
"  Come  and  look  at  them !" 

"No  need,"  she  made  answer.  "You  did  not  ask 
my  opinion  before  buying  them  ;  it  is  of  no  consequence 
now  whether  I  like  them  or  not." 

He  bit  his  lip. 

"  What  did  you  pay  for  them  ?"  she  asked.  He  told 
her  the  price ;  she  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  laughed 
contemptuously.  "So  they  told  me,"  she  said.  "I 
would  not  believe  it  1" 

"  When  you  have  seen  the  horses  you  will  not  think 


"0  THOU,  MF  AUSTRIA  I"  241 

the  price  too  high,"  Lato  said,  controlling  himself  with 
difficulty. 

"Oh,  the  price  may  be  all  right,"  she  rejoined, 
sharply,  "but  the  extravagance  seems  great  to  me. 
Of  course,  if  you  have  it " 

Everything  swam  before  his  eyes.  He  turned  and 
left  the  room.  That  very  day  he  sold  the  horses, — for- 
tunately without  loss.  He  brought  the  bank-notes  to 
his  wife,  who  was  seated  at  her  writing-table,  and  put 
them  down  before  her.  She  was  startled,  and  tried  to 
compromise  matters.  He  was  inflexible.  For  half  a 
day  the  apple  of  discord  in  the  shape  of  a  bundle  of 
bank-notes  lay  on  the  writing-table,  a  bait  for  dishonest 
servants ;  then  it  vanished  within  Selina's  desk. 

From  that  moment  Lato  was  not  to  be  induced  to  use 
a  single  penny  of  his  wife's  money.  He  retrenched  in 
all  directions,  living  as  well  as  he  could  upon  his  own 
small  income,  derived  from  his  maternal  inheritance, 
and  paid  him  punctually  by  his  father. 

He  was  not  in  the  least  annoyed  by  the  shabby  part 
he  was  consequently  obliged  to  play  among  his  wealthy 
associates,  but  when  he  recalled  how  he  had  previously 
appropriated  his  wife's  money  his  cheeks  and  ears 
burned  furiously. 

There  was  no  longer  any  talk  of  buying  an  estate. 
Instead,  Selina's  mother  bought  one.  The  Treuren- 
bergs  could  pass  their  summers  there.  "Why  squander 
money  on  an  estate  ?  One  magnificent  castle  in  the 
family  was  enough. 

Shortly  after  Lato's  estrangement  from  his  wife 
his  little  son  died  of  the  croup.  This  was  the  annihi- 
L  21 


242  "  O  THO  U,  MY  A  USTRIA  /" 

lation  of  his  existence;  the  last  sunbeam  upon  his 
path  faded;  all  around  and  within  him  was  dark 
and  cold. 

He  ponders  all  this  as  he  rides  from  Komaritz  to 
Dobrotschau.  His  horse's  pace  grows  slower  and 
slower,  his  bridle  hangs  loose.  Evening  has  set  in. 
Suddenly  a  sharp  whirr  rouses  the  lonely  man.  He 
looks  up,  to  see  a  belated  bird  hurrying  home  to  its 
nest.  His  dreamy  gaze  follows  the  black  fluttering 
thing,  and  he  wonders  vaguely  whether  the  little  wan- 
derer will  find  his  home  and  be  received  with  affection 
by  his  feathered  family.  The  idle  fancy  makes  him 
smile ;  but,  "  What  is  there  to  laugh  at  ?"  he  suddenly 
reflects.  "  Good  heavens !  a  life  that  warms  itself  be- 
side another  life,  in  which  it  finds  peace  and  comfort, 
— is  not  this  the  central  idea  of  all  existence,  great  or 
Bmall  ?  Everything  else  in  the  world  is  but  of  second- 
ary interest." 

For  him  there  is  no  human  being  in  whom  ho  can 
confide,  to  whom  he  can  turn  for  sympathy ;  for  him 
there  is  only  cheerless  solitude. 

The  moon  is  setting;  above  the  low  mountain-spur 
its  silver  crescent  hovers  in  the  liquid  light  green  of 
the  summer  evening  sky.  The  castle  of  Dobrotschau 
looms  up  in  the  twilight. 

"What  is  that  ?  Along  the  road,  towards  the  belated 
horseman,  comes  a  white  figure.  Can  it  be  Selina? 
His  heart  beats  fast ;  he  is  ready  to  be  grateful  for  the 
smallest  proof  of  affection,  so  strong  is  the  yearning 
within  him  for  a  little  human  sympathy.  No,  it  is  not 


"O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA  I"  243 

Selina ;  it  is  a  tall,  slender  girl.    She  has  seen  him,  and 
hastens  her  steps. 

"  Lato  1"  calls  an  anxious,  familiar  voice. 

"  Olga !"  he  exclaims,  and,  springing  from  his  horse, 
he  approaches  her.  Yes,  it  is  Olga, — Olga  in  a  white 
dress,  without  hat  or  gloves,  and  with  a  look  of  anxi- 
ety in  her  eyes. 

"  Thank  heaven  1"  she  exclaims. 

"My  child,  what  is  the  matter?"  he  asks,  half 
laughing. 

"  I  have  been  so  anxious,"  she  confesses.  "  You  are 
an  hour  and  a  half  late  for  dinner,  and  you  know  how 
foolish  I  am.  All  sorts  of  fancies  beset  me.  My  im- 
agination works  swiftly." 

"You  are  a  dear  child,  Olga,"  he  whispers,  softly, 
taking  her  hand  and  kissing  it  twice.  Then  they  walk 
together  towards  the  castle.  He  leads  his  horse  by  the 
bridle,  and  listens  to  all  the  trifling  matters  of  which 
she  tells  him. 

The  world  is  no  longer  dreary  and  empty  for  him. 
Here  is  at  least  one  person  who  is  not  indifferent  to 
his  going  and  coming. 

At  Dobrotschau  he  finds  the  entire  party  in  the 
garden-room.  Selina  and  the  Pole  are  playing  a  duett. 
Dinner  is  over.  They  could  not  wait  for  him,  Selina 
explains,  because  the  cook  was  trying  to-day  for  the 
first  time  a  souffle  of  Parmesan  cheese  and  truffles, 
which  would  have  been  ruined  by  delay.  But  his 
hospitable  mother-in-law  adds, — 

"  Your  dinner  is  all  ready  in  the  dining-room.  I  gave 
orders  that  it  should  be  served  as  soon  as,  you  came." 


244  "0  THO  U,  MY  A  USTRIA  I" 

And  Lato  goes  to  the  dining-hall,  a  magnificent  oak- 
wainscoted  room,  in  which  the  chandelier,  lighted  in 
his  honour,  represents  a  round  island  of  light  in  a  sea 
of  black  darkness.  The  soup-tureen  is  on  the  side- 
board: a  servant  lifts  the  cover,  and  the  butler  ladles 
out  a  plateful  of  the  soup  and  places  it  before  Lato. 

He  takes  a  spoonful  discontentedly,  then  motions  to 
the  butler  to  take  the  plate  away.  Olga  suddenly  ap- 
pears. 

"Have  you  left  any  for  me?"  she  asks.  "I  am 
fearfully  hungry,  for  I  could  not  eat  any  dinner." 

"  From  anxiety  ?"  asks  Lato. 

"  Yes,"  she  says,  laughing,  "  from  anxiety."  And  she 
takes  a  seat  opposite  him. 

"Oh,  you  silly  girll"  says  Treurenberg,  watching 
her  with  satisfaction  as  she  sips  her  soup.  Lato  him- 
self suddenly  has  an  access  of  appetite. 


«  O  THO  U%  MY  A  USTRIA  /" 

CHAPTER   XVIII. 
A  FRIEND'S  ADVICE. 

FEW  things  in  this  world  are  more  unpleasant  than 
to  be  obliged  to  admit  the  excellence  of  a  friend's  advice 
when  it  runs  counter  to  all  our  most  secret  and  decided 
inclinations. 

Harry  Leskjewitsch  finds  himself  thus  disagreeably 
situated  the  evening  after  Lato's  visit  to  Komaritz. 

While  Lato,  "  gens-d' armed"  by  two  lackeys,  is  eating 
his  late  dinner  with  Olga,  Harry  is  striding  discon- 
tentedly to  and  fro  in  the  steep,  uneven  court-yard  at 
Komaritz,  muttering  between  his  teeth, — 

"  Lato  is  right,  quite  right.  I  am  behaving  unpar- 
donably:  no  respectable  man  would  play  this  double 
part.  I  must  go  away." 

Yes,  away;  but  how  can  he  go  away  while  he 
knows  that  Baron  "Wenkendorf  is  at  Zirkow  ?  It  ap- 
pears to  him  that  he  can  still  do  something  to  prevent 
Zdena  from  giving  ear  to  her  elderly  suitor,  for  such  he 
certainly  seems  to  be.  Harry  has  been  often  at  Zirkow 
of  late, — no  fewer  than  three  times  since  his  entangle- 
ment,— and  he  has  consequently  had  opportunity  to 
watch  Zdena's  behaviour.  Her  feeling  for  the  man 
has  certainly  reached  another  stage ;  she  conducts  her- 
self with  more  gravity  towards  him,  and  with  more 
cordiality ;  she  often  turns  to  him  with  trifling  ques- 
tions, and  seems  to  take  a  kind  of  pleasure  in  his  society. 

21* 


246  "O  THOU,  MT  AUSTRIA!- 

"  "Who  knows  ?"  Harry  says  to  himself,  clinching  his 
hand  and  almost  mad  with  jealousy,  as  he  paces  the 
court-yard  to  and  fro. 

The  crescent  moon  in  the  August  sky  creeps  over 
the  dark  roof  of  the  brew-house.  The  air  is  freshened 
by  the  fragrance  of  the  group  of  walnuts ;  but  another 
and  more  penetrating  odour  mingles  with  it, — the  odour 
of  old  wood  impregnated  with  some  kind  of  ferment- 
ing stuff.  There,  against  the  uneven  wall  of  the  old 
brew-house,  stands  a  row  of  huge  casks. 

The  casks  recall  to  Harry  memories  that  fill  him 
with  sweet  and  bitter  sensations.  Into  one  of  them 
he  had  crept  with  Zdena,  during  a  storm,  in  the  early 
years  of  their  acquaintance.  Ah,  what  a  bewitching 
little  creature  she  was  then !  He  can  see  her  distinctly 
now,  with  her  long,  golden  hair ;  her  large,  brown  eyes, 
that  had  so  truthful  a  gaze ;  the  short  upper  lip  of  the 
childish  mouth,  that  seemed  always  on  the  point  of 
asking  a  question;  yes,  even  the  slender,  childish 
hands  he  can  see,  with  the  wide,  white  apron-sleeves ; 
the  short  skirt  and  the  bare  little  legs,  usually,  it  must 
be  confessed,  much  scratched.  He  recalls  the  short, 
impatient  movement  with  which  she  used  to  pull  her 
skirts  over  her  knees  when  she  sat  down.  In  one  of 
those  casks  they  had  taken  refuge  from  a  shower, — he 
and  she, — and  they  had  sat  there,  close  together,  look- 
ing out  upon  the  world  through  the  gray  curtain  of 
the  rain.  How  comically  she  had  peered  out,  now  and 
then  holding  out  her  hand  to  make  sure  that  it  was 
still  pouring !  It  would  not  stop.  Harry  can  hear  at 
this  moment  the  rustle  of  the  rain  through  the  foliage 


"O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  247 

of  the  walnuts,  its  drip  upon  the  cask,  and  the  cack- 
ling of  the  agitated  geese  in  the  court-yard.  He  had 
told  the  child  stories  to  amuse  her,  and  she  had  gone 
to  sleep  with  her  head  on  his  shoulder,  and  finally 
he  had  taken  off  his  jacket  to  wrap  it  about  her  as  he 
carried  her  through  the  rain  into  the  house. 

Oh,  what  a  lecture  they  had  had  from  Mademoiselle, 
who,  meanwhile,  had  been  sending  everywhere  to  find 
the  children,  and  was  half  crazy  with  anxiety  1 

"I  cannot  conceive  why  you  should  have  been 
anxious,  mademoiselle,"  he  had  said,  with  all  the  dig- 
nity of  his  twelve  years.  "  You  ought  to  know  that 
Zdena  is  well  taken  care  of  when  she  is  with  me." 

Twelve  years  have  passed  since  then,  but  it  seems 
to  him  suddenly  that  it  all  happened  only  yesterday. 

"  Well  taken  care  of,"  he  mutters  to  himself, — "  well 
taken  care  of.  I  believe  that  she  would  be  well  taken 
care  of  with  me  to-day,  but — good  heavens !" 

His  lips  are  dry,  his  throat  feels  contracted.  Up 
to  the  present  moment  he  has  regarded  his  betrothal 
to  Paula  as  a  disagreeable  temporary  entanglement; 
never  has  he  viewed  it  as  a  serious,  enduring  misfort- 
une. Lato's  words  have  thrown  a  vivid  light  upon  his 
position;  he  sees  clearly  that  he  is  no  longer  a  free 
agent,  and  that  every  hour  passed  with  Paula  rivets 
his  fetters  more  securely.  Yes,  Lato  is  right;  he 
must  go  away.  But  he  must  see  her  once  more  be- 
fore he  goes, — only  once. 


248  "O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!" 


CHAPTER   XIX. 

FRAU   ROSA'S   BIRTHDAY. 

HIGH  festival  is  being  held  at  Zirkow  in  honour  of 
Prau  Eosamunda's  birthday,  which  is  observed  this 
year  with  even  more  ceremony  than  usual.  Thanks 
to  a  fortunate  combination  of  circumstances,  the  major 
has  it  in  his  power  to  bestow  a  costly  gift  upon  his 
wife  this  year.  He  has  lately  concluded  a  very  profit- 
able bargain :  he  has  sold  the  entire  interior  arrange- 
ments of  the  brew-house  as  old  iron  and  copper  to  a 
Jew  for  the  magnificent  sum  of  fifteen  hundred  guil- 
ders. With  such  wealth  much  can  be  done.  Nothing 
now  prevents  the  devoted  husband  from  fulfilling  Frau 
Rosamunda's  two  ardent  desires, — a  trip  to  Bayreuth 
and  the  thorough  repair  of  the  much-defaced  decora- 
tions on  the  Zirkow  walls  and  ceilings.  On  her  birth- 
day-table Frau  Rosamunda  finds,  in  the  midst  of  a 
tasteful  arrangement  of  flowers,  first,  a  kind  of  sign 
in  miniature, — i.e.,  a  square  black  card,  upon  which  is 
written,  in  red  letters,  "  Good  for  house-decorators," — 
and  a  large  earthenware  prize  pig  with  stiff,  strad- 
dling legs  and  a  beautifully-rounded  body,  upon  which 
is  written,  also  in  red  letters,  "  A  steed  to  carry  you  to 
Bayreuth."  A  bouquet  of  four-leaved  clover  (Zdena 
gathered  it  at  dawn)  is  stuck  like  a  green  plume  be- 
tween the  animal's  projecting  ears.  A  pin-cushion 


"  O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA  I"  249 

covered  with  a  delicate  imitation  in  needle-work  of 
Irish  guipure,  the  piano  arrangement  of  '  Tristan  and 
Isolde'  and  a  potpourri  from  '  Parzifal,'  both  for  four 
hands,  complete  the  number  of  birthday-gifts.  The 
Irish  guipure  is  Zdena's  work ;  the  music  comes  from 
"Wenkendorf.  All  these  things — even  the  house-deco- 
rator— are  of  secondary  importance  to  Frau  Rosa- 
munda.  Her  whole  attention  is  absorbed  by  the  pig, 
at  which  enigmatic  monster  she  gazes  in  wonder. 

"A  steed  to  carry  you  to  Bayreuth."  It  sounds  like 
a  poor  jest,  a  very  poor  jest. 

The  major  looks  at  his  wife  with  a  broad  smile. 

"  Take  up  the  pig  and  shake  it  a  little,"  he  says  at 
last.  Frau  Rosamunda  obeys.  There  is  a  clink  of 
coin.  She  understands,  and  runs  to  her  husband  with 
a  cry  of  delight. 

She  celebrates  the  remainder  of  her  birthday  by 
playing  duets  with  her  cousin  from  '  Tristan  and  Isolde' 
and  '  Parzifal'  alternately.  The  major  walks  about 
with  his  hands  clasped  behind  him,  deep  in  thought 
and  well  content,  like  a  man  who  is  about  to  carry 
out  a  carefully-devised  plan. 

The  afternoon  sun  is  casting  long  shadows,  and 
Krupitschka,  who  has  just  finished  furbishing  up  the 
silver, — in  honour  of  the  birthday  six  more  silver 
dishes  than  usual  have  been  brought  out  to-day, — is 
sitting  on  a  bench  at  the  back  of  the  castle,  refreshing 
himself  with  an  examination  of  the  foreign  dictionary 
which  he  has  purchased  with  the  money  for  his  can- 
tharides, — and  which,  by  the  way,  he  finds  highly  un- 
satisfactory,— when  a  young  officer  of  hussars  upon  an 


250  "O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA  I" 

English  chestnut  mare  with  a  hide  like  satin  comes 
galloping  into  the  court-yard. 

At  sight  of  the  horse  and  its  rider  all  clouds  vanish 
from  Krupitschka' s  horizon ;  in  his  opinion  there  is  no 
finer  sight  in  the  world  than  a  "  handsome  officer  upon 
a  handsome  horse." 

He  is  not  the  only  one  to  admire  Harry  Leskjewitsch 
on  his  mare  Frou-Frou.  At  one  of  the  windows  of  the 
castle  a  pale,  girlish  face  appears,  and  a  pair  of  bright 
brown  eyes  look  down  into  the  court-yard, — for  a  mo- 
ment only.  But  Harry  has  seen  the  face,  quickly  as  it 
disappears,  and  his  heart  beats  fast. 

"Are  the  ladies  at  home?"  he  asks  Krupitschka,  as 
ho  gives  his  steed  in  charge  to  a  groom  who  hurries 
up,  clad  in  a  striped  stable-jacket  very  much  darned 
at  the  elbows,  and  a  cap  with  a  tarnished  silver  band. 

"  They  are,  Hen*  Baron."  And  Krupitschka  shows 
Harry  up  the  steps  and  to  the  door  of  the  drawing- 
room,  which  he  opens  with  dignity,  not  because  such 
ceremony  is  at  all  necessary,  but  because  the  young 
man  has  been  his  favourite  from  childhood,  and  he 
loves  to  perform  any  service  for  him. 

When  Harry  enters,  Frau  Eosamunda  and  Wenken- 
dorf  are  still  at  the  piano,  working  away  at '  Parzifal,' 
and  do  not  seem  over-pleased  by  the  interruption.  The 
major  is  lying  back  in  a  rocking-chair,  smoking  a 
cigarette  and  upon  his  nephew's  entrance  springs  up 
with  undisguised  delight  and  goes  towards  him  with 
extended  hands. 

"  Tell  the  Baroness  Zdena  that  a  visitor  has  arrived !" 
he  calls  out  to  Krupitschka;  then,  turning  to  Harry, 


"0  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA  I"  251 

he  says,  smiling,  "And  BO   you   have  come  to  con- 
gratulate ?" 

"  Congratulate  ?"  Harry  repeats,  surprised  and  pre- 
occupied. 

"  Oh,  you  have  forgotten,  then  ?"  the  major  rejoins. 

Harry  slaps  his  forehead.  "Dearest  aunt,  forgive 
me!  how  thoughtless  I  am!"  And  he  kisses  Frau 
Eosamunda's  hand. 

"  I  do  not  take  it  at  all  ill  of  you,"  she  assures  him. 
"  At  my  age  people  would  rather  have  their  birthday 
forgotten  than  remembered." 

"  Oh — ah !  I  have  not  observed  that,"  the  major 
declares. 

"  Oh,  it  is  different  for  you.  You  may  be  allowed  to 
take  notice  of  my  being  each  year  one  year  older, 
always  provided  that  you  give  me  upon  all  my  birth- 
days as  great  a  pleasure  as  to-day." 

"  You  cannot  reckon  upon  that,  my  dear ;  all  years 
are  not  alike,"  the  major  replies.  "  This  was  a  lucky 
chance." 

"  Have  you  had  a  stroke  of  good  fortune,  uncle  ?" 
Harry  asks,  trying  to  take  an  interest  in  the  matter. 

"Yes,"  the  major  informs  him;  "I  have  just  con- 
cluded a  brilliant  transaction.  I  have  sold  the  iron 
from  the  interior  of  the  brew-house." 

"  For  how  much,  may  I  ask  ?" 

"  Fifteen  hundred  guilders,"  the  major  declares,  tri- 
umphantly. "I  would  not  abate  one  penny.  The 
superintendent  was  surprised  at  the  sum,  I  can  tell 
you." 

"  I  do  not  understand  such  matters,"  Harry  rejoins, 


252  "O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA  I" 

thinking  of  the  enormous  expense  of  fitting  up  the 
brew-house  some  years  ago.  His  uncle's  'brilliant 
transaction1  reminds  him  of  the  story  of  'Hans  in 
Luck.'  "  And  in  consequence  your  birthday-gifts  have 
been  very  superior,  aunt  ?" 

"  Yes." 

Frau  Kosamunda  displays  with  delight  the  prize 
pig.  The  green  plume  between  its  ears  is  slightly 
faded,  but  the  coins  in  its  body  clink  as  triumphantly 
as  ever. 

"  *  A  steed  to  carry  you  to  Bayreuth,' "  Harry  reads. 
"  I  am  so  glad,  my  dear  aunt,  that  your  wish  is  to  be 
fulfilled." 

"  Tickets  for  two  performances  besides  the  journey," 
the  major  proudly  declares. 

"And  my  cousin  has  surprised  me  with  some  de- 
lightful music  which  I  have  long  wanted." 

"Not  worth  mentioning,  Rosamunda,"  Wonkendorf 
says,  deprecatingly. 

"  My  wife's  birthday  has  really  turned  out  a  "Wagner 
festival,"  the  major  declares.  "  Since  ten  o'clock  this 
morning  these  two  artists  have  been  playing  nothing 
but  Wagner,  for  their  own  pleasure  and  the  conversion 
of  their  hearers.  Zdena  ran  away,  but  I  stood  my 
ground,  and  I  have  become  quite  accustomed  to  tho 
noise." 

"  That  is  a  good  sign,"  Wenkendorf  assures  him. 

"You  ought  to  hear  Wagner's  compositions  very 
often.  What  do  you  say,  Roderich,  to  our  playing  for 
Harry  some  of  the  loveliest  bits  of  '  Parzifal'  ?  We  are 
just  in  the  mood." 


"0  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  253 

"Do  not  let  me  interrupt  you;  pray  go  on;  it 
will  give  me  the  greatest  pleasure,"  Harry  murmurs, 
glancing  towards  the  door.  Why  does  she  not  come  ? 

Meanwhile,  the  two  amateurs  have  begun  with  un- 
tiring energy. 

"  Kundry's  Eide !"  Frau  Eosamunda  calls  out  to  her 
nephew,  while  her  hands  dash  over  the  keys.  Harry 
does  not  hear  her.  He  has  seated  himself  beside  the 
major,  and  absently  takes  a  cigarette  from  the  case 
which  his  uncle  offers  him. 

"I  came  to  bid  you  good-bye,"  he  says,  in  an  un- 
certain voice. 

"Indeed!"  says  the  major,  looking  at  him  scruti- 
nizingly.  "  Is  your  leave  at  an  end  ?" 

"No,  but "  Harry  hesitates  and  pulls  at  his 

moustache. 

"  H'm !"  A  sly  smile  quivers  upon  the  major's  broad 
face.  "  Have  you  quarrelled  with  your  betrothed  ?" 

«  No,  but " 

The  door  opens,  and  Zdena  enters,  slender  and  pale, 
dressed  in  a  simply-fashioned  linen  gown.  She  has  lost 
her  fresh  colour,  and  her  face  is  much  thinner,  but  her 
beauty,  far  from  being  injured  thereby,  is  heightened 
by  an  added  charm, — a  sad,  touching  charm,  that 
threatens  to  rob  Harry  of  the  remnant  of  reason  he 
can  still  call  his. 

"  How  are  you,  Zdena  ?"  he  says,  going  to  meet  her, 
while  the  warmest  sympathy  trembles  in  his  voice. 
"  You  look  pale.  Are  you  well  ?" 

"The  heat  oppresses  me,"  she  says,  with  a  slight 
forced  smile,  withdrawing  the  hand  which  he  would 

22 


"  0  THO  U,  MY  A  USTRIA  /» 

fain  have  retained  longer  in  his  clasp  than  was  fitting 
under  the  circumstances. 

"The  Balsam  motif,"  Frau  Eosamunda  calls  from 
the  piano. 

After  a  while  Zdena  begins : 

"  How  are  they  all  at  Komaritz  ?  Heda  sent  her  con- 
gratulations to-day  with  some  lovely  flowers,  but  said 
nothing  with  regard  to  the  welfare  of  the  family." 

"  I  wonder  that  Heda  did  not  remind  you  of  the 
birthday,  Harry  I"  remarks  the  major. 

"  Oh,  she  rejoices  over  every  forgetfulness  in  those 
around  her,"  Harry  observes,  with  some  malice :  "  she 
likes  to  stand  alone  in  her  extreme  virtue." 

"  Motif  of  the  Redeemer's  Sufferings,"  Frau  Eosa- 
munda calls  out.  Zdena  leans  forward,  and  seems  ab- 
sorbed in  Wagner.  Harry  cannot  take  his  eyes  off  her. 

"  What  a  change !"  he  muses.  "  Can  she — could  she 
be  suffering  on  my  account  ?" 

There  is  an  agreeable  flutter  of  his  entire  nervous 
system:  it  mingles  with  the  sense  of  unhappiness 
which  he  drags  about  with  him. 

"  Oh,  what  a  double-dyed  fool  I  was  1"  a  voice  within 
him  cries  out.  "  How  could  I  be  so  vexed  with  her 
scrap  of  childish  worldly  wisdom,  instead  of  simply 
laughing  at  her  for  it,  teasing  her  a  little  about  it,  and 
then,  after  I  had  set  her  straight,  forgiving  her,  oh, 
how  tenderly  1" 

"  Zdona  is  not  quite  herself.  I  do  not  know  what 
ails  her,"  said  the  major,  stroking  the  girl's  thin  cheek. 

"  You  have  long  been  a  hypochondriac  on  your  own 
account ;  now  you  are  trying  it  for  other  people,"  says 


"O  THOU,  MF  AUSTRIA  I"  255 

Zdena,  rising  and  going  to  the  window,  where  she 
busies  herself  with  some  embroidery.  "  I  have  a  little 
headache,"  she  adds. 

"  Earthly  Enjoyment  motif,"  Frau  Eosamunda  calls 
out,  enthusiastically,  in  a  raised  voice. 

The  major  bursts  into  Homeric  laughter,  in  which 
Zdena,  whose  overstrained  nerves  dispose  her  for  tears 
as  well  as  laughter,  joins.  Harry  alone  does  not  laugh : 
his  head  is  too  full  of  other  matters. 

"  Is  Zdena  also  going  to  Bayreuth  ?"  he  asks. 

"  No,"  the  major  replies ;  "  the  finances  are  not  equal 
to  that." 

"  Tis  a  pity,"  Harry  remarks :  "  a  little  change  of 
air  might  do  her  good." 

"  So  it  seems  to  me,"  the  major  assents,  "  and  I  was 
about  to  propose  a  plan.  By  the  way,  when  do  you 
take  your  departure  ?" 

"  Are  you  going  away?"  asks  Frau  Eosamunda, 
rising  from  the  piano,  aglow  with  enthusiasm  and 
artistic  zeal,  to  join  the  trio.  Wenkendorf  also  rises 
and  takes  a  seat  near  the  rest. 

"  He  is  going  away,"  the  major  replies. 

"  Yes,"  assents  Harry. 

"  But  what  does  your  betrothed  say  ?" 

"  I  have  already  put  that  question  to  him,"  said  the 
major. 

"  One  of  my  comrades  has  suddenly  been  taken  ill," 
Harry  stammers,  frowning ;  "  and  so — of  course  it  is 
veiy  unpleasant  just  now " 

"Very,  very,"  murmurs  the  major,  with  a  hypo- 
critical show  of  sympathy.  "  When  do  you  start  ?" 


256  "  O  THOU,  MY  A  USTRJA  l» 

"  Oh,  the  day  after  to-morrow." 

"That  suits  me  remarkably  well,"  the  major  re- 
marks. "There  will  be  a  vacant  room  at  Komaritz, 
and  Zdena  might  go  over  for  a  couple  of  days." 

Wenkendorf  frowns  disapprovingly.  "  It  is  a  great 
pity  that  you  are  not  going  with  us  to  Bayreuth,"  he 
says,  turning  to  the  young  girl. 

"  That  would  be  a  fine  way  to  cure  the  headache," 
the  major  observes. 

"  I  would  rather  stay  at  home  with  you,  uncle  dear," 
Zdena  assures  him. 

"  That  will  not  do.  Friday  evening  my  wife  starts 
for  Bayreuth ;  Saturday  I  expect  the  painters ;  the 
entire  house  will  be  turned  upside-down,  and  I  have 
no  use  for  you.  Therefore,  since  there  is  room  for  you 
at  Komaritz " 

"There  is  always  room  at  Komaritz  for  Zdena," 
Harry  eagerly  declares. 

"  Yes, — particularly  after  you  have  gone.  It  is  de- 
cided ;  she  is  going.  I  shall  take  her  over  on  Satur- 
day afternoon,"  the  major  announces.  "  You  can  tell 
Heda." 

"  And  who  will  go  to  Bayreuth  with  my  aunt  ?"  asks 
Harry. 

"  Her  musical  cousin  Eoderich.  By  the  way,  "Wen- 
kendorf, you  will  come  back  to  Zirkow  from  Bay- 
reuth ?" 

"  Of  course  I  shall  escort  Eosamunda  upon  her  re- 
turn." 

"  We  shall  be  glad  to  welcome  you  for  the  hunting. 
I  take  it  for  granted  you  will  give  us  a  long  visit  then  ?" 


"O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  257 

"  That  will  depend  upon  circumstances,"  says  Wen- 
kendorf,  with  a  significant  glance  towards  Zdona, 
which  does  not  escape  Harry. 

Meanwhile,  the  August  twilight  has  set  in.  Kru- 
pitschka  brings  the  lamps.  Harry  rises. 

"  Will  you  not  stay  for  supper  ?"  asks  Frau  Eosa. 

"  No,  thank  you ;  I  have  a  deal  to  do." 

"No  wonder,  before  leaving,"  says  the  wily  major, 
not  making  the  slightest  effort  to  detain  the  young 
fellow.  "  You  are  looking  for  your  sabre  ? — there  it  is. 
Ah,  what  a  heavy  thing!  When  I  reflect  upon  how 
many  years  I  dragged  such  a  rattling  tool  about  with 
me!" 

Harry  has  gone.  The  major  has  accompanied  him 
to  the  court-yard,  and  he  now  returns  to  the  room, 
chuckling,  and  rubbing  his  hands,  as  if  at  some  suc- 
cessful trick. 

"  What  an  idea !  So  sudden  a  journey ! — and  a  be- 
trothed man !"  Frau  Rosa  remarks,  thoughtfully. 

"  If  I  were  his  betrothed  I  would  hurry  and  have 
the  monogram  embroidered  on  my  outfit,"  drawls  the 
major.  "  Let  me  come  there,  if  you  please."  These 
last  words  are  addressed  to  Wenkendorf,  who  is  about 
to  close  the  piano.  The  major  takes  his  place  at  it, 
bangs  away  at  his  triumphal  march  with  immense 
energy  and  a  tolerably  harmonious  bass,  then  claps 
down  the  cover  of  the  much-tortured  instrument,  locks 
it,  and  puts  the  key  in  his  pocket.  "There,  that's 
enough  for  to-day !"  he  declares. 


22* 


258  "O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA  I" 

CHAPTER    XX. 

KOMARITZ   AGAIN. 

THE  major  carried  out  his  plan.  On  Saturday  the 
painter  made  solemn  entry  into  Zirkow  with  his  train 
of  workmen,  their  ladders,  paint-pots,  and  brushes,  to 
turn  the  orderly  household  upside-down, — whereupon 
Baron  Paul  drove  Zdena  to  Komaritz,  in  the  same  drag 
in  which  the  child  of  six  had  first  been  driven  thither 
by  him. 

More  than  a  dozen  years  had  passed  since  that  after- 
noon, and  yet  every  detail  of  the  drive  was  vividly 
present  in  the  young  girl's  mind.  Much  had  changed 
since  then ;  the  drag  had  grown  far  shabbier,  and  the 
fiery  chestnuts  had  been  tamed  and  lamed  by  time,  but 
the  road  was  just  as  bad,  and  the  country  around  as 
lovely  and  home-like.  From  time  to  time  Zdena  raised 
her  head  to  gaze  where  the  stream  ran  cool  and  gray 
on  the  other  side  of  the  walnut-trees  that  bordered  the 
road,  or  at  the  brown  ruin  of  the  castle,  the  jagged 
tower  of  which  was  steadily  rising  in  the  blue  atmos- 
phere against  the  distant  horizon.  And  then  she 
would  pull  her  straw  hat  lower  over  her  eyes  and  look 
only  at  the  backs  of  the  horses.  Why  did  her  uncle 
keep  glancing  at  her  with  such  a  sly  smile  ?  He  could 
not  divine  the  strange  mixture  of  joy  and  unrest  that 
was  filling  her  soul.  No  one  must  know  it.  Poor 
Zdena  1  All  night  long  she  had  been  tormented  by  the 


"  O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  259 

thought  that  she  had  yielded  too  readily,  had  acceded 
too  willingly  to  her  uncle's  proposal  to  take  her  to 
Komaritz  during  the  bustle  made  by  the  painters,  and 
she  had  soothed  her  scruples  by  saying  to  herself,  "  He 
will  not  be  there."  And,  yet,  the  nearer  they  came  to 
Komaritz  the  more  persistent  was  the  joyous  sugges- 
tion within  her,  "  What  if  he  were  not  yet  gone !" 

Click-clack  I  The  ancient  St.  John,  whose  bead  is 
lying  at  his  feet  precisely  as  it  was  lying  so  many  years 
ago,  stands  gray  and  tall  among  the  lindens  in  the 
pasture  near  the  village ;  they  have  reached  Komaritz. 
Click-clack! — the  horses  make  an  ambitious  effort  to 
end  their  journey  with  credit.  The  same  ox,  recently 
butchered,  hangs  before  the  butcher-shop  on  an  old 
walnut ;  the  same  odour  of  wagon-grease  and  singed 
hoofs  comes  from  the  smithy,  and  before  it  the  smith 
is  examining  the  foot  of  the  same  horse,  while  a  dozen 
village  children  stand  around  gazing.  The  same  dear 
old  Komaritz! 

"  If  only  he  might  be  there !" 

With  a  sudden  jolt  the  drag  rolls  through  the  pic- 
turesque, ruinous  archway  of  the  court-yard.  The 
chestnuts  are  reined  in,  the  major's  sly  smile  broadens 
expressively,  and  Zdena's  young  pulses  throb  with 
breathless  delight. 

Yes,  he  is  there!  standing  in  the  door-way  of  the 
old  house,  an  embarrassed  smile  on  his  thin,  tanned  face 
as  he  offers  his  hand  to  Zdena  to  help  her  down  from 
her  high  seat. 

"What  a  surprise!  You  here?"  exclaims  the  old 
dragoon,  with  poorly-feigned  astonishment,  in  which 


260  "O  THOU,  M7  AUSTRIA!" 

there  is  a  slight  tinge  of  ridicule.  "I  thought  you 
would  be  miles  away  by  this  time.  It  is  a  good  thing 
that  you  were  able  to  postpone  your  departure  for  a 
few  days.  No,  I  can't  stop ;  I  must  drive  home  again 
immediately.  Adieu,  children  1" 

Baron  Paul  turns  his  tired  steeds,  and,  gaily  waving 
his  hand  in  token  of  farewell,  vanishes  beneath  the 
archway. 

There  they  stand,  she  and  he,  alone  in  front  of  the 
house.  The  old  walnuts,  lifting  their  stately  crests  into 
the  blue  skies  along  one  side  of  the  court-yard,  whisper 
all  sorts  of  pleasant  things  to  them,  but  they  have  no 
words  for  each  other. 

At  last  Harry  asks,  taking  the  black  leather  trav- 
elling-bag from  his  cousin's  hand,  "Is  this  all  your 
luggage?" 

"  The  milkman  is  to  bring  a  small  trunk,"  she  replies, 
without  looking  at  him. 

"  We  have  had  your  old  room  made  ready  for  you." 

"Ah,  my  old  room, — how  delightful!" 

They  cross  the  threshold,  when  Harry  suddenly 
stands  still. 

"Are  you  not  going  to  give  me  your  hand?"  he 
asks,  in  a  tone  of  entreaty,  whereupon  she  extends 
her  hand,  and  then  instantly  withdraws  it.  She  seems 
to  herself  to  be  doing  wrong.  As  matters  stand,  she 
must  not  make  the  smallest  advance  to  him, — no,  not 
the  smallest :  she  has  resolved  upon  tha-t.  In  fact,  she 
did  not  expect  to  see  him  here,  and  she  must  show 
him  that  she  is  quite  annoyed  by  his  postponing  his 
departure. 


"  O  THO  U,  Mr  A  USTRIA  I"  261 

Yap,  yap,  yap !  the  rabble  of  dachshunds,  multiplied 
considerably  in  the  last  twelve  years,  comes  tumbling 
down  the  steps  to  leap  about  Zdena;  Harry's  faith- 
ful hound  Hector  comes  and  puts  his  paws  on  her 
shoulder;  and,  lastly,  the  ladies  come  down  into  the 
hall, — Heda,  the  Countess  Zriny,  Fraulein  Laut, — and, 
surrounding  Zdena,  carry  her  off  to  her  room.  Here 
they  stay  talking  with  her  for  a  while  ;  then  they  with- 
draw, each  to  follow  her  own  devices. 

How  glad  the  girl  is  to  be  alone !  She  is  strangely 
moved,  perplexed,  and  yet  unaccountably  happy. 

It  is  clear  that  Harry  intends  to  dissolve  the  engage- 
ment into  which  so  mysterious  a  chain  of  circumstances 
has  forced  him.  The  difficulty  of  doing  this  Zdena 
does  not  take  into  consideration.  Paula  must  see  that 
he  does  not  care  for  her;  and  then — then  there  will  be 
nothing  left  for  her  save  to  release  him.  Thus  Zdena 
concludes,  and  the  world  looks  very  bright  to  her. 

Oh,  the  dear  old  room !  she  would  not  exchange  it  for 
a  kingdom.  How  home-like  and  comfortable  1 — so  shady 
and  cool,  with  its  deep  window-recesses,  where  the 
sunshine  filters  in  through  the  green,  rustling  net-work 
of  vines ;  with  its  stiff  antiquated  furniture  forming  so 
odd  a  contrast  to  the  wild  luxuriance  of  extraordinary 
flowers  with  which  a  travelling  fresco-painter  ages  ago 
decorated  walls  and  ceiling ;  with  its  old-fashioned  em- 
broidered prie-dieu  beneath  an  ancient  bronze  crucifix, 
and  its  little  bed,  so  snowy  white  and  cool,  fragrant 
with  lavender  and  orris ! 

The  floor,  of  plain  deal  planks,  scrubbed  to  a  milky 
whiteness,  is  bare,  except  that  beside  the  bed  lies  a  rug 


262  "  O  THOU,  MY  A  USTRIA  I" 

upon  which  a  very  yellow  tiger  is  rolling,  and  gnashing 
his  teeth,  in  a  very  green  meadow,  and  on  the  wall 
hangs  one  single  picture, — a  faded  chromo,  at  which 
Zdena,  when  a  child,  had  almost  stared  her  eyes  out. 

The  picture  represents  a  young  lady  gazing  at  her 
reflection  in  a  mirror.  Her  hair  is  worn  in  tasteless, 
high  puffs  and  much  powdered,  her  waist  is  unnaturally 
long  and  slim,  and  her  skirts  are  bunched  up  about 
her  hips.  To  the  modern  observer  she  is  not  attractive, 
but  Zdena  hails  her  as  an  old  acquaintance.  Beneath 
the  picture  are  the  words  "  Lui  plairai-je?"  The 
thing  hangs  in  one  of  the  window-embrasures,  above  a 
marquetrie  work-table,  upon  which  has  been  placed  a 
nosegay  of  fresh,  fragrant  roses. 

"  Who  has  plucked  and  placed  them  there  ?"  Zdena 
asks  herself.  Suddenly  a  shrill  bell  rings,  calling  to 
table  the  inmates  of  Komaritz  in  house  and  garden. 
Zdena  hurriedly  picks  out  of  the  nosegay  the  loveliest 
bud,  and  puts  it  in  her  breast,  then  looks  at  herself  in 
the  glass, — a  tall,  narrow  glass  in  a  smooth  black 
frame  with  brass  rosettes  at  the  corners, — and  mur- 
murs, smiling,  "  Lui  plairai-jef"  then  blushes  violently 
and  takes  out  the  rose  from  her  bosom.  It  is  a  sin 
even  to  have  such  a  thought, — under  existing  circum- 
stances. 


"  O  THOU,  Mr  AUSTRIA  I"  263 


CHAPTEE    XXL 

"POOR  LATOl" 

FIVE  hours  have  passed  since  Zdena's  arrival  in  Ko- 
maritz.  Harry  has  been  very  good ;  that  is,  he  has 
scarcely  made  an  appearance;  perhaps  because  he  is 
conscious  that  when  he  is  with  Zdena  he  can  hardly 
take  his  eyes  off  her,  which,  "  under  existing  circum- 
stances," might  strike  others  as,  to  Bay  the  least,  ex- 
traordinary. 

After  dinner  he  goes  off  partridge  shooting,  inviting 
his  younger  brother,  who  is  devoted  to  him  and  whom 
he  spoils  like  a  mother,  to  accompany  him.  But  Tips, 
as  the  family  prefer  to  call  him  instead  of  Yladimir, 
although  usually  proud  and  happy  to  b«  thus  distin- 
guished by  his  elder  brother,  declines  his  invitation  to- 
day. In  fact,  he  has  fallen  desperately  in  love  with 
Zdena.  He  is  lying  at  her  feet  on  the  steps  leading 
from  the  dwelling-room  into  the  garden.  His  hair  is 
beautifully  brushed,  and  he  has  on  his  best  coat. 

The  Countess  Zriny  is  in  her  room,  writing  to  her 
father  confessor ;  Fraulein  Laut  is  at  the  piano,  prac- 
tising something  by  Brahms,  to  which  musical  hero 
she  is  almost  as  much  devoted  as  is  Eosamunda  to 
her  idolized  Wagner;  and  Heda  is  sitting  beside  her 
cousin  on  the  garden-steps,  manufacturing  with  praise- 
worthy diligence  crochetted  stars  of  silk. 


264  "O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!" 

•'What  do  you  really  think  of  Harry's  betrothal, 
Zdena  ?"  she  begins  at  last,  after  a  long  silence. 

At  this  question  the  blood  rushes  to  Zdena's  cheeks ; 
nevertheless  her  answer  sounds  quite  self-possessed. 

"  What  shall  I  say  ?    I  was  very  much  surprised." 

"  So  was  I,"  Heda  confesses.  "  At  first  I  was  raging, 
for,  after  all,  elle  riest  pas  de  noire  monde.  But  lately 
so  many  young  men  of  our  set  have  married  nobodies 
that  one  begins  to  be  accustomed  to  it,  although  I 
must  say  I  am  by  no  means  enchanted  with  it  yet. 
One's  own  brother, — it  comes  very  near;  but  it  is 
best  to  shut  one's  eyes  in  such  cases.  Setting  aside 
the  mesalliance^  there  is  no  objection  to  make  to 
Paula.  She  is  pretty,  clover,  frightfully  cultivated, 
— too  cultivated :  it  is  rather  bad  form, — and  for  the 
rest,  if  she  would  only  dress  a  little  better,  she  would 
be  quite  presentable.  And  then  she  makes  such 
advances;  it  is  touching.  The  last  time  I  dined  at 
Dobrotschau  I  found  in  my  napkin  a  butterfly  pen- 
dant, with  little  sapphires  and  rubies  in  its  diamond 
wings.  I  must  show  it  to  you;  'tis  delicious,"  she 
rattles  on. 

"  And  what  did  you  find  in  your  napkin,  Vips  ?"  asks 
Zdena,  who  seems  to  herself  to  be  talking  of  people 
with  whom  she  has  not  the  slightest  connection,  so 
strange  is  the  whole  affair. 

"  I  ?    I  was  not  at  the  dinner,"  says  the  boy. 

"  Not  invited  ?"  Zdena  rallies  him. 

"  Not  invited  I"  Vips  draws  down  the  corners  of 
his  mouth  scornfully.  "  Oh,  indeed !  not  invited ! 
Why,  they  invited  the  entire  household, — even  her  I" 


«O  THOV,  Mr  AUSTRIA t"  265 

He  motions  disdainfully  towards  the  open  door,  through 
which  Fraulein  Laut  can  be  seen  sitting  at  the  piano. 
"  Yes,  we  were  even  asked  to  bring  Hector.  But  I 
stayed  at  home,  because  I  cannot  endure  those  Har- 
finks." 

"  Ah !  your  sentiments  are  also  opposed  to  the  mes- 
alliance ?"  Zdena  goes  on,  ironically. 

"Mesalliance!"  shouts  Vips.  "You  know  very  well 
that  I  am  a  Liberal !" 

Vips  finished  reading  "Don  Carlos"  about  a  fortnight 
ago,  and  even  before  then  showed  signs  of  Liberal  ten- 
dencies. 

The  previous  winter,  when  he  attended  the  repre- 
sentation, at  a  theatre  in  Bohemia,  of  a  new  play  of 
strong  democratic  colouring,  he  applauded  all  the  free- 
thinking  tirades  with  such  vehemence  that  his  tutor 
was  at  last  obliged,  to  the  great  amusement  of  the 
public,  to  hold  back  his  hands. 

"  Ah,  indeed,  you  are  Liberal  ?"  says  Zdena.  "  I  am 
delighted  to  hear  it." 

"  Of  course  I  am ;  but  every  respectable  man  must 
be  a  bit  of  an  aristocrat,"  Vips  declares,  grandly,  "  and 
I  cannot  endure  that  Harry  should  marry  that  Paula. 
I  told  him  so  to  his  face ;  and  I  am  not  going  to  his 
wedding.  I  cannot  understand  why  be  takes  her,  for 
he's  in  love "  He  suddenly  pauses.  Two  gentle- 
men are  coming  through  the  garden  towards  the  steps, 
— Harry  and  Lato. 

Lato  greets  Zdena  cordially.  Heda  expresses  her 
surprise  at  Harry's  speedy  return  from  his  shooting, 
and  he,  who  always  now  suspects  some  hidden  mean- 
M  23 


266  "O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA  1" 

ing  in  her  remarks,  flushes  and  frowns  as  he  replies, 
"  I  saw  Treureiiberg  in  the  distance,  and  so  I  turned 
back.  Besides,  the  shooting  all  went  wrong  to-day," 
he  adds,  with  a  compassionate  glance  at  the  large 
hound  now  stretched  out  at  his  master's  feet  at  the 
bottom  of  the  steps.  "  He  would  scarcely  stir:  I  cannot 
understand  it,  he  is  usually  so  fresh  and  gay,  and  loves 
to  go  shooting  more  than  all  the  others ;  to-day  he  was 
almost  sullen,  and  lagged  behind, — hey,  old  boy?"  He 
stoops  and  strokes  the  creature's  neck,  but  the  dog 
seems  ill-tempered,  and  snaps  at  him. 

"  What !  snap — snap  at  me !  that's  something  new," 
Harry  exclaims,  frowning ;  then,  seizing  the  animal  by 
the  collar,  he  shakes  it  violently  and  hurls  it  from  him. 
"  Be  off !"  he  orders,  sternly.  The  dog,  as  if  suddenly 
ashamed,  looks  back  sadly,  and  then  walks  slowly  away, 
with  drooping  ears  and  tail.  "  I  don't  know  what  is 
the  matter  with  the  poor  fellow !"  Harry  says,  really- 
troubled. 

"He  walks  strangely;  he  seems  stiff,"  Vladimir  re- 
marks, looking  after  the  dog.  "It  seems  to  hurt 
him." 

"Some  good-for-nothing  boy  must  have  thrown  a 
stone  at  him  and  bruised  his  back,"  Harry  decides. 

"You  had  better  be  careful  with  that  dog,"  Heda 
now  puts  in  her  word.  "  Several  dogs  hereabouts  have 
gone  mad,  and  one  roamed  about  the  country  for  some 
time  before  he  could  be  caught  and  killed." 

"  Pray,  hush !"  Harry  exclaims,  almost  angrily,  to  his 
sister,  with  whom  he  is  apt  to  disagree:  "you  always 
forebode  the  worst.  If  a  fly  stings  one  you  are  always 


"O  THO U,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  267 

sure  that  it  has  just  come  from  an  infected  horse  or 
cow." 

"  You  have  lately  been  so  irritable,  I  cannot  imagine 
what  is  the  matter  with  you,"  lisps  Hedwig. 

Harry  frowns. 

Lato,  meanwhile,  has  paid  no  heed  to  these  remarks : 
he  is  apparently  absorbed  in  his  own  thoughts,  as, 
sitting  on  a  lower  step,  he  has  been  drawing  with  the 
handle  of  his  riding-whip  cabalistic  signs  in  the  gravel 
of  the  path.  Now  he  looks  up. 

"  I  have  a  letter  for  you  from  Paula, — here  it  is,"  he 
observes,  handing  Harry  a  thick  packet  wrapped  in 
light-blue  tissue  paper.  While  Harry,  with  a  dubious 
expression  of  countenance,  drops  the  packet  into  his 
coat-pocket,  Lato  continues:  "Paula  has  all  sorts  of 
fancies  about  your  absence.  You  have  not  been  to 
Dobrotschau  for  two  days.  She  is  afraid  you  are  ill, 
and  that  you  are  keeping  it  from  her  lest  she  should 
be  anxious.  She  is  coming  over  here  with  my  wife  to- 
morrow afternoon  to  look  after  you — I  mean,  to  pay 
the  ladies  a  visit."  After  Lato  has  given  utterance  to 
these  words  in  a  smooth  monotone,  his  expression  sud- 
denly changes :  his  features  betoken  embarrassment, 
as,  leaning  towards  Harry,  he  whispers,  "I  should 
like  te  speak  with  you  alone.  Can  you  give  me  a  few 
minutes  ?" 

Shortly  afterwards,  Harry  rises  and  takes  his  friend 
with  him  to  his  own  room,  a  spacious  vaulted  chamber 
next  to  the  dining-room,  which  he  shares  with  his 
young  brother. 

'•  Well,  old  fellow  ?"  he  begins,  encouragingly,  clap- 


268  "O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!" 

ping  Lato  on  the  shoulder.  Lato  clears  his  throat, 
then  slowly  takes  his  seat  in  an  arm-chair  beside  a 
table  covered  with  a  disorderly  array  of  Greek  and 
Latin  books  and  scribbled  sheets  of  paper.  Harry  sits 
opposite  him,  and  for  a  while  neither  speaks. 

The  silence  is  disturbed  only  by  the  humming  of  tho 
bees,  and  by  the  scratching  at  the  window  of  an  an- 
cient apricot-tree,  which  seems  desirous  to  call  atten- 
tion to  what  it  has  to  say,  but  desists  with  a  low 
rustle  that  sounds  like  a  sigh.  The  tall  clock  strikes 
five;  it  is  not  late,  and  yet  the  room  is  dim  with  a 
gray-green  light;  the  sunbeams  have  hard  work  to 
penetrate  the  leafy  screen  before  the  windows. 

"  Well  ?"  Harry  again  says,  at  last,  gently  twitching 
his  friend's  sleeve. 

"  It  is  strange,"  Treurenberg  begins ;  his  voice  has  a 
hard,  forced  sound,  he  affects  an  indifference  foreign 
to  his  nature,  "  but  since  my  marriage  I  have  had  ex- 
eel  tent  luck  at  play.  To  speak  frankly,  it  has  been 
very  convenient.  Do  not  look  so  startled ;  wait  until 
you  are  in  my  position.  In  the  last  few  days,  how- 
ever, fortune  has  failed  me.  In  my  circumstances  this 
is  ext/emely  annoying."  He  laughs,  and  flicks  a  grain 
of  duit  from  his  coat-sleeve. 

Hany  looks  at  him,  surprised.  "  Ah  I  I  understand. 
You  want  money.  How  much?  If  I  can  help  you 
out  I  sh*ll  be  glad  to  do  so." 

"  Six  Lundred  guilders,"  says  Lato,  curtly. 

Harry  can  scarcely  believe  his  ears.  How  can  Lato 
come  to  Kim  for  such  a  trifle  ? 

"  I  can  i-srtainly  scrape  together  that  much  for  you," 


"0  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  269 

he  says,  carelessly,  and  going  to  his  writing-table  he 
takes  a  couple  of  bank-notes  out  of  a  drawer.  "  Here  1" 
and  he  offers  the  notes  to  his  friend. 

Lato  hesitates  for  a  moment,  as  if  in  dread  of  the 
money,  then  takes  it,  and  puts  it  in  his  pocket. 

"  Thanks,"  he  murmurs,  hoarsely,  and  again  there  is 
a  silence,  which  Lato  is  the  first  to  break.  "  Why  do 
you  look  at  me  so  inquiringly  ?"  he  exclaims,  almost 
angrily. 

"  Forgive  me,  Lato,  we  are  such  old  friends." 

"  What  do  you  want  to  know  ?" 

"  I  was  only  wondering  how  a  man  in  your  brilliant 
circumstances  could  be  embarrassed  for  so  trifling  a  sum 
as  six  hundred  guilders !" 

"A  man  in  my  brilliant  circumstances!"  Lato  re- 
peats, bitterly.  "  Yes,  you  think,  as  does  everybody  else, 
that  I  am  still  living  upon  my  wife's  money.  But  you 
are  mistaken.  I  tried  it,  indeed,  for  a  while,  but  I  was 
not  made  to  play  that  part,  no !  It  was  different  at 
first ;  my  wife  wished  that  I  should  have  the  disposal 
of  her  means,  and  I  half  cheated  myself  into  the  belief 
that  her  millions  belonged  to  me.  She  came  to  me 
for  every  farthing.  I  used  to  rally  her  upon  her  ex- 
travagance ;  I  played  at  magnanimity,  and  forgave  her, 
and  made  her  costly  presents — yes — good  heavens,  how 
disgusting  I  But  that  is  long  since  past;  we  have 
separate  purses  at  present,  thank  God!  I  am  often 
too  shabby  nowadays  for  the  grand  folk  at  Dobrot- 
schau,  but  that  does  not  trouble  me."  He  drums  ner- 
vously upon  the  table. 

Harry  looks  more  and  more  amazed.  "  But  then  I 
23* 


270  "O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!" 

cannot  see  why "  he  murmurs,  but  lacks  the  cour- 
age to  finish  the  sentence. 

"  I  know  what  you  wish  to  say,"  Lato  continues, 
bitterly.  "  You  wonder  why,  under  these  circumstances, 
I  cannot  shake  off"  the  old  habit.  What  would  you 
have  ?  Hitherto  I  have  won  almost  constantly ;  now 
my  luck  has  turned,  and  yet  I  cannot  control  myself. 
Those  who  have  not  this  cursed  love  of  play  in  their 
blood  cannot  understand  it,  but  play  is  the  only  thing 
in  the  world  in  which  I  can  become  absorbed, — the  only 
thing  that  can  rid  me  of  all  sorts  of  thoughts  which  I 
never  ought  to  entertain.  There  I  now  you  know !" 

He  draws  a  deep,  hoarse  breath,  then  laughs  a  hard, 
wooden  laugh.  Harry  is  very  uncomfortable :  he  has 
never  before  seen  Lato  like  this.  It  distresses  him  to 
notice  how  his  friend  has  changed  in  looks  of  late. 
His  eyes  are  hollow  and  unnaturally  bright,  his  lips 
are  dry  and  cracked  as  from  fever,  and  he  is  more  rest- 
less than  is  his  wont. 

"Poor  Lato!  what  fresh  trouble  have  you  had 
lately  ?"  asks  Harry,  longing  to  express  his  sympathy. 

Lato  flushes  crimson,  then  nervously  curls  into  dog's- 
ears  the  leaves  of  a  Greek  grammar  on  the  table,  and 
shrugs  his  shoulders. 

"  Oh,  nothing, — disagreeable  domestic  complications," 
he  mutters,  evasively. 

"Nothing  new  has  happened,  then?"  asks  Harry, 
looking  at  him  keenly. 

Lato  cannot  endure  his  gaze.  "What  could  have 
happened  ?"  he  breaks  forth. 

"  How  do  you  get  along  with  your  wife  ?" 


"  O  THO  U,  MY  A  USTRIA  I"  27 1 

"Not  at  all, — worse  every  day,"  Treurenberg  says, 
dryly.  "  And  now  comes  this  cursed,  meddling  Polish 
jackanapes " 

"  If  the  gentlemen  please,  the  Baroness  sends  me  to 
say  that  coffee  is  served."  With  these  words  Blasius 
makes  his  appearance  at  the  door.  Lato  springs 
hastily  to  his  feet.  The  conversation  is  at  an  end. 


CHAPTER    XXII. 

HARRY'S  MUSINGS. 

"  WHAT  are  you  doing  there,  you  young  donkey, — 
your  lessons  not  yet  learned,  and  wasting  time  in  this 
fashion?" 

These  were  Harry's  words  addressed  to  his  young 
brother.  The  boy  was  standing  on  an  old  wooden 
bench,  gazing  over  the  garden  wall. 

"  I  am  looking  after  the  girl  who  was  here  to-day 
with  the  people  from  Dobrotschau." 

"  Whom  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  Why,  the  beauty ;  Olga^Olga  Dangeri  is  her 
name.  Come  here  and  see  for  yourself  if  it  is  wasting 
time  to  look  after  her." 

With  an  involuntary  smile  at  the  lad's  precocity, 
Harry  mounted  upon  the  bench  beside  his  brother, 
and,  through  the  gathering  twilight,  gazed  after  a 
couple — a  man  and  a  girl — slowly  sauntering  along 


272  "0  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!" 

the  road  outside  tho  garden.  The  man  walked  with 
bent  head  and  downcast  look ;  the  young  girl,  on  the 
contrary,  held  her  head  proudly  erect,  and  there  was 
something  regal  in  her  firm  gait.  The  man  walked  in 
silence  beside  his  beautiful  companion,  who,  on  the 
other  band,  never  stopped  talking,  chattering  away  with 
easy  grace,  and  turning  towards  him  the  while.  The 
silhouette  of  her  noble  profile  was  clearly  defined 
against  the  evening  sky.  The  last  golden  shimmer  of 
the  setting  sun  touched  her  brown  hair  with  a  reddish 
gleam.  She  had  taken  off  her  hat  and  hung  it  on  her 
arm  ;  her  white  gown  fell  in  long,  simple  folds  about 
her. 

"There!  is  she  not  lovely?"  Vips  exclaimed,  with 
boyish  enthusiasm.  "  I  cannot  understand  Lato :  he 
hardly  looks  at  her." 

Harry  hung  his  head. 

"  They  have  vanished  in  the  walnut  avenue ;  you 
can't  see  them  now,"  said  Yips,  leaving  his  post  of 
observation.  "I  like  her;  she  is  not  only  beautiful, 
she  is  clever  and  amiable,"  the  boy  went  on.  "  I  talked 
with  her  for  quite  a  while,  although  she  is  not  so  en- 
tertaining as  our  Zdena, — she  is  not  half  so  witty. 
Let  me  tell  you,  there  is  no  one  in  all  the  world  like 
our  Zdena."  As  he  spoke,  Vladimir,  the  keen-sighted, 
plucked  his  brother  by  the  sleeve  of  his  blue  military 
blouse,  and  eyed  him  askance.  "What  is  the  matter 
with  you,  Harry?"  For  Harry  shook  the  boy  off 
rather  rudely. 

"Oh,  hold  your  tongue  for  a  while!"  Harry  ex» 
claimed,  angrily;  "  I  have  a  headache." 


"0  THOU,  Mr  AUSTRIA!"  273 

Thus  repulsed,  Vladimir  withdrew,  not,  however, 
without  turning  several  times  to  look  at  his  brother, 
and  sighing  each  time  thoughtfully.  Meanwhile, 
Harry  had  seated  himself  on  the  old  bench  whence 
Vips  had  made  his  observations.  His  hands  in  his 
pockets,  his  legs  stretched  out  before  him,  he  sat 
wrapt  in  gloom,  digging  his  spurs  into  the  ground. 

He  had  passed  a  hard  day, — a  day  spent  in  deceit ; 
there  was  no  help  for  it.  How  mean  he  was  in  his 
own  eyes!  and  yet — how  could  he  help  it?  Paula 
had  carried  out  her  threat,  and  had  driven  over  with 
Selina,  bringing  Olga  and  Lato,  "  to  pay  the  ladies  a 
visit."  After  the  first  greetings  she  had  paid  the 
ladies  little  further  attention,  but  had  devoted  her- 
self to  her  betrothed,  drawing  him  with  her  into 
some  window-recess  or  shady  garden  nook,  where  she 
could  whisper  loving  words  or  lavish  tender  caresses, 
which  he  could  not  repulse  without  positive  rudeness. 
Oh,  how  long  the  visit  had  seemed  to  him !  Although 
Paula  had  withdrawn  him  from  the  rest  of  the  com- 
pany as  far  as  possible,  he  had  found  opportunity 
to  observe  them.  Olga,  who  could  not  drive  back- 
wards in  a  carriage  comfortably,  but  with  whom  neither 
of  the  other  ladies  had  offered  to  exchange  seats, 
had  arrived  rather  pale  and  dizzy.  Zdena  had  imme- 
diately applied  herself  to  restoring  her,  with  the  ready, 
tender  sympathy  that  made  her  so  charming.  Vips 
was  right :  there  was  no  one  like  Zdena  in  the  world, 
although  Olga  was  more  beautiful,  and  also  glowing 
with  the  charm  to  which  no  man  is  insensible, — the 
charm  of  a  strong,  passionate  nature.  Not  even 


274  "O  THOU,  Mr  AUSTRIA  1" 

Hurry,  whose  whole  soul  was  filled  at  present  with, 
another,  and  to  him  an  infinitely  more  attractive, 
woman,  could  quite  withstand  this  charm  in  Olga's 
society ;  it  made  the  girl  seem  to  him  almost  uncanny. 

It  had  rather  displeased  Harry  at  first — he  could 
not  himself  say  why — to  see  how  quickly  a  kind  of 
intimacy  established  itself  between  Olga  and  Zdena. 
As  the  two  girls  walked  arm  in  arm  down  the  garden 
path  he  would  fain  have  snatched  Zdena  away  from  her 
new  friend,  the  pale  beautiful  Olga,  whom  nevertheless 
he  so  pitied. 

Meanwhile,  Heda  had  done  the  honours  of  the  man- 
sion for  Selina,  in  which  duty  she  was  assisted  by  the 
Countess  Zriny,  who  displayed  the  greatest  condescen- 
sion on  the  occasion.  Then  the  ladies  asked  to  see 
the  house,  and  had  been  conducted  from  room  to 
room,  evidently  amazed  at  the  plainness  of  the  furni- 
ture, but  loud  in  their  praises  of  everything  as  "so 
effective."  Paula  had  begged  to  see  Harry's  room,  and 
had  rummaged  among  his  whips,  had  put  one  of  his 
cigars  between  her  lips,  and  had  even  contrived,  when 
she  thought  no  one  was  looking,  to  kiss  the  tip  of  his 
ear.  The  Countess  Zriny,  however,  accidentally  looked 
round  at  that  moment,  to  Harry's  great  confusion. 
Towards  six  o'clock  the  party  had  taken  leave,  with 
many  expressions  of  delight  and  attachment. 

Before  they  drove  off,  however,  there  had  been  a 
rather  unpleasant  scene.  Lato  had  requested  his  wife 
to  exchange  seats  with  Olga,  since  the  girl  could  not, 
without  extreme  discomfort,  ride  with  her  back  to  the 
horses.  Selina  hud  refused  to  comply  with  his  request, 


"O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  275 

asserting  that  to  ride  backwards  was  quite  as  un- 
pleasant for  her  as  for  Olga. 

Then  Olga  had  joined  in  the  conversation,  saying 
Bhe  had  heard  that  the  path  through  the  forest  to 
Dobrotschau  was  very  picturesque,  and  declaring  that 
if  Lato  would  accompany  her  she  should  much  prefer 
to  walk.  To  this  Lato  had  made  various  objections, 
finally  yielding,  however,  and  setting  out  with  hia 
head  hanging  and  his  shoulders  drooping,  like  a  lamb 
led  to  the  sacrifice. 

Harry's  thoughts  dwelt  upon  the  pale  girl  with  the 
large,  dark  eyes.  Was  it  possible  that  none  of  the 
others  could  read  those  eyes?  He  recalled  the  tall, 
slim  figure,  the  long,  thin,  but  nobly-modelled  arms, 
the  slender,  rather  long  hands,  in  which  a  feverish 
longing  to  have  and  to  hold  somewhat  seemed  to 
thrill ;  he  recalled  the  gliding  melancholy  of  her  gait, 
he  was  spellbound  by  the  impression  of  her  youthful 
personality.  Where  had  he  seen  a  figure  expressing 
the  same  yearning  enthusiasm?  Why,  in  a  picture  by 
Botticelli, — a  picture  representing  Spring, — a  pale,  sul- 
try Spring,  in  whose  hands  the  flowers  faded.  Some- 
thing in  the  girl's  carriage  and  figure  reminded  him  of 
that  allegorical  Spring,  except  that  Olga's  face  was 
infinitely  more  beautiful  than  the  languishing,  ecstatic 
countenance  in  the  old  picture. 

Long  did  Harry  sit  on  the  garden  bench  reflecting, 
and  his  reflections  became  every  moment  more  dis- 
tressing. He  forgot  all  his  own  troubles  in  this  fresh 
anxiety. 

He  thought  of  Treurenberg's  altered  mien.      Olga 


276  "O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!" 

had  not  yet  awakened  to  a  consciousness  of  herself, 
and  that  was  a  comfort.  She  was  not  only  absolutely 
pure, — Harry  was  sure  of  that, — but  she  was  entirely 
unaware  of  her  own  state  of  feeling.  How  long  would 
this  last,  however?  Passion  walks,  like  a  somnambu- 
list, in  entire  security  on  the  edge  of  profound  abysses, 
so  long  as  "sense  is  shut"  in  its  eyes.  But  what  if 
some  rude  hand,  some  unforeseen  chance,  awake  it? 
Then — God  have  mercy  1 

Harry  dug  his  spurs  deeper  into  the  gravel.  "  What 
will  happen  if  her  eyes  should  ever  be  opened?"  he 
asked  himself,  with  a  shudder.  "She  is  in  no  wise 
inclined  to  wanton  frivolity,  but  she  is  a  passionate 
creature  without  firm  principles,  without  family  ties 
to  restrain  her.  And  Lato?  Lato  will  do  his  best  to 
conquer  himself.  But  can  he  summon  up  the  strength 
of  character,  the  tact,  requisite  to  avoid  a  catastrophe 
and  to  preserve  the  old  order  of  things?  And  if  not, 
what  then  ?" 

Harry  leaned  his  head  on  his  hands  and  his  elbows 
on  his  knees.  To  what  it  would  all  lead  he  could  not 
tell,  but  he  dreaded  something  terrible.  He  knew 
Lato  well,  the  paralyzing  weakness,  as  well  as  the  sub- 
tile refinement,  of  his  nature.  Stern  principle,  a  strict 
Bense  of  duty,  he  lacked :  how  could  it  be  otherwise, 
with  such  early  training  as  had  been  his?  Instead, 
however,  he  possessed  an  innate  sense  of  moral  beauty 
which  must  save  him  from  moral  degradation. 

"  A  young  girl,  one  of  his  home  circle  I"  Harry  mur- 
mured to  himself.  "No,  it  is  inconceivable  I  And, 
yet,  what  can  come  of  it?"  And  a  sobbing  breeze, 


"O  TIIOU,  MF  AUSTRIA!"  277 

carrying  with  it  the  scent  of  languid  roses  from 
whose  cups  it  had  drunk  up  the  dew,  rustled  among  the 
thirsty  branches  overhead  with  a  sound  that  seemed  to 
the  young  fellow  like  the  chuckle  of  an  exultant  fiend. 


CHAPTEE    XXIII. 

ZDENA   TO   THE    RESCUE. 

Bur  Harry  ceases  to  muse,  for  the  shrill  clang  of  the 
bell  summons  him  to  supper.  He  finds  the  entire  fam- 
ily assembled  in  the  dining-room  when  he  enters.  All 
are  laughing  and  talking,  even  Zdena,  who  is  allowing 
handsome,  precocious  Vladimir  to  make  love  to  her 
after  more  and  more  startling  fashion.  She  informs 
Harry  that  Vips  has  just  made  her  a  proposal  of  mar- 
riage, which  disparity  of  age  alone  prevents  her  from 
accepting,  for  in  fact  she  is  devoted  to  the  lad. 

"  I  renounce  you  from  a  sense  of  duty,  Vips,"  she 
assures  the  young  gentleman,  gently  passing  her  delicate 
forefinger  over  his  smooth  brown  cheek,  whereupon 
Vips  flushes  up  and  exclaims, — 

"  If  you  won't  have  me,  at  least  promise  me  that  I 
shall  be  best  man  at  your  wedding!" 

Harry  laughs  heartily.  "What  an  alternative! 
Either  bridegroom  or  best  man  1" 

"But  you  will  promise  me,  Zdena,  won't  you?"  the 
boy  persists. 

"It  depends  upon  whom  I  marry,"  Zdena  replies, 
24 


278  "O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA  I" 

•with  dignity.  "  The  bridegroom  will  have  a  word  to 
say  upon  the  subject."  As  she  speaks,  her  eyes  en- 
counter Harry's ;  she  drops  them  instantly,  her  cheeks 
flush,  and  she  pauses  in  confusion. 

As  she  takes  her  place  at  table,  she  finds  a  letter 
beside  her  plate,  post-marked  Bayreuth,  and  sealed 
with  a  huge  coat-of-arms.  Evidently  startled,  she 
slips  it  into  her  pocket  unopened. 

"From  whom?"  asks  Heda,  whose  curiosity  is  al- 
ways on  the  alert. 

"  From — from  Bayreuth." 

"From  Aunt  Rosa?" 

Zdena  makes  no  reply. 

"  From  Wenkendorf  ?"  Harry  asks,  crossly. 

The  blood  rushes  to  her  cheeks.  "Yes,"  she  mur- 
murs. 

"  How  interesting  I"  Heda  exclaims.  "  I  really  should 
like  to  hear  his  views  as  to  the  musical  mysteries  in 
Bayreuth.  Bead  the  letter  aloud  to  us." 

"  Oh,  it  is  sure  to  be  tiresome,"  Zdena  replies,  heap- 
ing her  plate  with  potatoes  in  her  confusion. 

"  I  wish  you  a  good  appetite !"  Yladimir  exclaims. 

Zdena  looks  in  dismay  at  the  potatoes  piled  upon  her 
plate. 

"  At  least  open  the  letter,"  says  Heda. 

"  Open  it,  pray  I"  Harry  repeats. 

Mechanically  Zdena  obeys,  breaks  the  seal,  and 
hastily  looks  through  the  letter.  Her  cheeks  grow 
redder  and  redder,  her  hands  tremble. 

"  Come,  read  it  to  us." 

Instead  of  complying,  Zdena  puts  the  document  in 


"0  77/0 tT,  Mr  AUSTRIA!"  279 

her  pocket  again,  and  murmurs,  much  embarrassed, 
"  There — there  is  nothing  in  it  about  Bayreuth." 

"  Ah,  secrets !"  Heda  says,  maliciously. 

Zdena  makes  no  reply,  but  gazes  in  desperation  at 
the  mound  of  potatoes  on  her  plate.  It  never  de- 
creases in  the  least  during  the  entire  meal. 

Jealousy,  which  has  slept  for  a  while  in  Harry's 
breast,  springs  to  life  again.  One  is  not  a  Leskjewitsch 
for  nothing.  So  she  keeps  up  a  correspondence  with 
Wenkendorf !  Ah !  he  may  be  deceived  in  her.  Why 
was  she  so  confused  at  the  first  sight  of  the  letter? 
and  why  did  she  hide  it  away  so  hastily  ?  Who  knows  ? 
— she  may  be  trifling  with  her  old  adorer,  holding  him 
in  reserve  as  it  were,  because  she  has  not  quite  decided 
as  to  her  future.  Who — who  can  be  trusted,  if  that 
fair,  angelic  face  can  mask  such  guile  ? 

Countess  Zriny,  as  amiable  and  benevolent  as  ever, 
— Vips  calls  her  "  syrup  diluted  with  holy  water," — 
notices  that  something  has  occurred  to  annoy  the 
others,  and  attempts  to  change  their  train  of  thought. 

"  How  is  your  dog,  my  dear  Harry  ?"  she  asks  her 
nephew  across  the  table. 

"  Very  ill,"  the  young  officer  replies,  curtly. 

"  Indeed  ?  Oh,  how  sad  1  What  is  the  matter  with 
him?" 

"  I  wish  I  knew.  He  drags  his  legs,  his  tail  droops, 
and  he  has  fever.  I  cannot  help  thinking  that  some 
one  has  thrown  a  'stone  at  him,  and  I  cannot  imagine 
•who  could  have  been  guilty  of  such  cruelty." 

"Poor  Hector!  'Tis  all  up  with  him;  he  has  no 
appetite,"  Vips  murmurs. 


280  "O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA  I" 

"  How  do  you  know  that  ?"  Harry  turns  sharply 
upon  the  lad. 

"  I  took  him  a  piece  of  bread  this  afternoon,"  stam- 
mers Vips. 

"  Indeed  ?"  Harry  bursts  forth.  "  Do  that  again  and 
you  shall  suffer  for  it.  I  strictly  forbade  you  to  go 
near  the  dog!"  Then,  turning  to  the  others,  he  ex- 
plains :  "  I  had  to  have  the  dog  chained  up,  out  of  re- 
gard for  the  servants'  nonsensical  fears  1" 

"  But,  Harry,"  Vips  begins,  coaxingly,  after  a  while, 
"  if  I  must  not  go  near  the  dog  you  ought  not  to  have 
so  much  to  do  with  him.  You  went  to  him  several 
times  to-day." 

"That's  very  different;  he  is  used  to  me,"  Harry 
sternly  replies  to  his  brother,  who  is  looking  at  him 
with  eyes  full  of  anxious  affection.  "  I  have  to  see  to 
him,  since  all  the  asses  of  servants,  beginning  with 
that  old  fool  Blasius,  are  afraid  of  the  poor  brute. 
Moreover,  he  has  everything  now  that  he  needs." 

Vips  knits  his  brows  thoughtfully  and  shakes  his 
head. 

Suddenly  the  door  of  the  dining-room  opens,  and  old 
Blasius  appears,  pale  as  ashes,  and  trembling  in  every 
limb. 

"  What  is  the  matter?"  Harry  asks,  springing  up. 

"  Herr  Baron,  I "  the  old  man  stammers. 

"What  is  the  matter?" 

"  I  told  the  Herr  Baron  how  it  would  be,"  the  old 
man  declares,  with  the  whimsical  self-assertion  which 
BO  often  mingles  with  distress  in  the  announcement 
of  some  misfortune :  "  Hector  has  gone  mad." 


"O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  281 

"Nonsense!  what  do  you  know  about  hydrophobia? 
Let  the  dog  alone !"  Harry  shouts,  stamping  his  foot. 

"  He  has  broken  his  chain." 

"Then  chain  him  up  again!  Send  Johann  here." 
(Johann  is  Harry's  special  servant.) 

"  Johann  is  not  at  home.  The  Herr  Baron  does  not 
know  what  he  orders.  The  dog  rushes  at  everything 
in  its  path,  and  tears  and  bites  it.  No  one  dares  to  go 
near  him,  not  even  the  butcher.  He  must  be  killed." 

"  What,  you  coward !"  Harry  shouts ;  "  my  dog  killed 
because  of  a  little  epilepsy,  or  whatever  it  is  that  ails 
him!"  Meanwhile,  Harry  notices  that  his  brother, 
who  had  vanished  into  the  next  room  for  a  moment,  is 
now  attempting  with  a  very  resolute  air  to  go  out 
through  the  door  leading  into  the  hall.  Harry  seizes 
him  by  the  shoulder  and  stops  him :  "  Where  are  you 
going?" 

Vips  is  mute. 

"What  have  you  in  your  hand  f" 

It  is  Harry's  revolver. 

"  Is  it  loaded  ?"  he  asks,  sternly. 

"  Yes,"  Vips  replies,  scarce  audibly. 

"Put  it  down  there  on  the  piano!"  Harry  orders, 
harshly.  The  poor  boy  obeys  sadly,  and  then  throws 
his  arms  around  his  brother. 

"  But  you  will  stay  here,  Harry  ?  dear  Harry,  you 
will  not  go  near  the  dog  ?" 

"  You  silly  boy,  do  you  suppose  I  am  to  do  whatever 
you  bid  me?"  Harry  rejoins.  And,  pinning  the  lad's 
arms  to  his  sides  from  behind,  he  lifts  him  up,  carries 
him  into  the  next  room,  locks  him  in,  puts  the  key 

24* 


282  "  0  7770  U,  MI"  A  USTRIA !" 

in  his  pocket,  and,  without  another  word,  leaves  the 
room.  Blasius  stays  in  the  dining-room,  wringing  bis 
hands,  and  finally  engages  in  a  wailing  conversation 
with  Vips,  who  is  kicking  violently  at  the  door  behind 
which  he  is  confined.  Heda,  the  Countess  Zriny,  and 
Fraulein  Laut,  their  backs  towards  the  piano,  upon 
which  lies  the  revolver,  form  an  interesting  group,  ex- 
pressing in  every  feature  terror  and  helplessness. 

"Perhaps  he  may  not  be  mad,"  Countess  Zriny 
observes,  after  a  long  silence,  resolved  as  ever  to  ig- 
nore unpleasant  facts.  "  However,  I  have  my  eau  de 
Lourdes,  at  all  events." 

At  this  moment  the  rustle  of  a  light  garment  is 
heard.  The  Countess  looks  round  for  Zdena,  but  she 
has  vanished.  Whither  has  she  gone  ? 

The  dining-room  has  four  doors, — one  into  the  gar- 
den, another  opposite  leading  into  the  hall,  a  third 
opening  into  Harry's  room,  and  a  fourth  into  the 
pantry.  Through  this  last  Zdena  has  slipped.  From 
the  pantry  a  narrow,  dark  passage  leads  down  a  couple 
of  steps  into  a  lumber-room,  which  opens  on  the  court- 
yard. 

Zdena,  when  she  steps  into  the  court-yard,  closes  the 
door  behind  her  and  looks  around.  Her  heart  beats 
tumultuously.  She  hopes  to  reach  Harry  before  he 
meets  the  dog ;  but,  look  where  she  may,  she  cannot 
Bee  him. 

Wandering  clouds  veil  the  low  moon ;  its  light  is 
fitful,  now  bright,  then  dim.  The  shadows  dance  and 
fade,  and  outlines  blend  in  fantastic  indistinctness. 
The  wind  has  risen ;  it  shrieks  and  howls,  and  whirls 


"0  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  283 

the  dust  into  the  poor  girl's  eyes.  A  frightful  growl- 
ing sound  mingles  with  the  noise  of  the  blast. 

Zdena's  heart  beats  faster;  she  is  terribly  afraid. 
"Harry!"  she  calls,  in  an  agonized  tone;  " Harry  1" 
In  vain.  She  hears  his  shrill  whistle  at  the  other  end 
of  the  court-yard,  hears  him  call,  commandingly,  "  Hec- 
tor, come  here,  sir  I"  He  is  far  away.  She  hurries 
towards  him.  Hark!  Her  heart  seems  to  stand  still. 
Near  her  sounds  the  rattle  of  a  chain ;  a  pair  of  fierce 
bloodshot  eyes  glare  at  her :  the  dog  is  close  at  hand. 
He  sees  her,  and  makes  ready  for  a  spring. 

It  is  true  that  the  girl  has  a  revolver  in  her  hand, 
but  she  has  no  idea  what  to  do  with  it ;  she  has  never 
fired  a  pistol  in  her  life.  In  desperate  fear  she  clam- 
bers swiftly  upon  a  wood-pile  against  the  brewery  wall. 
The  dog,  in  blind  fury,  leaps  at  the  wood,  falls  back, 
and  then  runs  howling  in  another  direction.  The 
moon  emerges  from  the  clouds,  and  pours  its  slanting 
beams  into  the  court-yard.  At  last  Zdena  perceives 
her  headstrong  cousin ;  he  is  going  directly  towards 
the  dog. 

"Hector!"  he  shouts;  "Hector!" 

A  few  steps  onward  he  comes,  when  Zdena  slips 
down  from  her  secure  height.  Panting,  almost  beside 
herself,  the  very  personification  of  heroic  self-sacrifice 
and  desperate  terror,  she  hurries  up  to  Harry. 

"  What  is  it — Zdena — you  ?"  Harry  calls  out.  For, 
just  at  the  moment  when  he  stretches  out  his  hand 
to  clutch  at  the  dog's  collar,  a  slender  figure  rushes 
between  him  and  the  furious  brute. 

"  Here,  Harry, — the  revolver !"  the  girl  gasps,  holding 


284  "O  THOU,  MF  AUSTRIA!" 

out  the  weapon.  There  is  a  sharp  report :  Hector  turns, 
staggers,  and  falls  dead ! 

The  revolver  drops  from  Harry's  hand ;  he  closes 
his  eyes.  For  a  few  seconds  he  stands  as  if  turned  to 
stone,  and  deadly  pale.  Then  he  feels  a  soft  touch 
upon  his  arm,  and  a  tremulous  voice  whispers, — 

"  Forgive  me,  Harry  1  I  know  how  you  must  grieve 
for  your  poor  old  friend,  but — but  I  was  so  frightened 
for  you !" 

He  opens  his  eyes,  and,  throwing  his  arm  around  the 
girl,  exclaims, — 

"  You  angel  I  Can  you  for  an  instant  imagine  that 
at  this  moment  I  have  a  thought  to  bestow  upon  the 
dog,  dearly  as  I  loved  him  ?" 

His  arm  clasps  her  closer. 

"  Harry !"  she  gasps,  distressed. 

"With  a  sigh  he  releases  her. 

In  the  summits  of  the  old  walnuts  there  soughs  a 
wail  of  discontent,  and  the  moon,  which  shone  forth 
but  a  moment  ago  so  brilliantly,  and  which  takes  de- 
light in  the  kisses  of  happy  lovers,  veils  its  face  in 
clouds  before  its  setting,  being  defrauded  of  any  such 
satisfaction. 

"  Come  into  the  house,"  whispers  Zdena.  But  walk- 
ing  is  not  so  easy  as  she  thinks.  She  is  so  dizzy  that 
she  can  hardly  put  one  foot  before  the  other,  and, 
whether  she  will  or  not,  she  must  depend  upon  Harry 
to  support  her. 

"  Fool  that  I  am  1"  he  mutters.  "  Lean  upon  me, 
you  poor  angel  1  You  are  trembling  like  an  aspen- 
leaf." 


«u  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  285 

"  I  can  hardly  walk, — I  was  so  terribly  afraid,"  she 
confesses. 

"  On  my  account  ?"  he  asks. 

"No,  not  on  your  account  alone,  but  on  my  own, 
too,"  she  replies,  laughing,  "  for,  entirely  between  our- 
selves, I  am  a  wretched  coward." 

"Keally?  Oh,  Zdena "  He  presses  the  hand 

that  rests  on  his  arm. 

"  But,  Harry,"  she  says,  very  gravely  this  time,  "  I 
am  not  giddy  now.  I  can  walk  very  well."  And  she 
takes  her  hand  from  his  arm. 

He  only  laughs,  and  says,  "  As  you  please,  my  queen, 
but  you  need  not  fear  me.  If  a  man  ever  deserved 
Paradise,  I  did  just  then."  He  points  to  the  spot 
beneath  the  old  walnuts,  where  the  moon  had  been 
disappointed. 

A  few  seconds  later  they  enter  the  dining-room, 
where  are  the  three  ladies,  and  the  Countess  Zriny 
advances  to  meet  Harry  with  a  large  bottle  of  eau  de 
Lourdes,  a  tablespoonful  of  which  Heda  is  trying  to 
heat  over  the  flame  of  the  lamp,  while  Fraulein  Laut 
pauses  in  her  account  of  a  wonderful  remedy  for  hydro- 
phobia. 

Harry  impatiently  cuts  short  all  the  inquiries  with 
which  he  is  besieged,  with  "The  dog  is  dead;  I  shot 
him  I"  He  does  not  relate  how  the  deed  was  done. 
At  first  he  had  been  disposed  to  extol  Zdena's  heroism, 
but  he  has  thought  better  of  it.  He  resolves  to  keep 
for  himself  alone  the  memory  of  the  last  few  moments, 
to  guard  it  in  his  heart  like  a  sacred  secret.  As  Yips 
is  still  proclaiming  his  presence  in  the  next  room  by 


286  "0  THOU,  MF  AUSTJltAf" 

pounding  upon  the  door,  Harry  takes  the  key  from  his 
pocket  and  smilingly  releases  the  prisoner.  The  lad 
rushes  at  his  brother.  "  Did  he  not  bite  you  ?  Eeally 
not?"  And  when  Harry  answers,  "No,"  he  entreats, 
"  Show  me  your  hands,  Harry, — both  of  them !"  and 
then  ho  throws  his  arms  about  the  young  man  and 
clasps  him  close. 

"  Oh,  you  foolish  fellow !"  Harry  exclaims,  stroking 
the  boy's  brown  head.  "  But  now  be  sensible ;  don't 
behave  like  a  girl.  Do  you  hear  ?" 

"My  nerves  are  in  such  a  state,"  sighs  Heda. 

Harry  stamps  his  foot.  "  So  are  mine  I  I  would 
advise  you  all  to  retire,  and  recover  from  this  turmoil." 

Soon  afterwards  the  house  is  silent.  Even  Vips  has 
been  persuaded  to  go  to  bed  and  sleep  off  his  fright. 
Harry,  however,  is  awake.  After  ordering  Blasius  to 
bury  the  dog,  and  to  bring  him  his  revolver,  which  he 
now  remembers  to  have  left  lying  beside  the  animal's 
body,  he  seats  himself  on  the  flight  of  steps  leading 
from  the  dining-room  into  the  garden,  leans  his  elbows 
on  his  knees  and  his  head  on  his  hands,  and  dreams. 
The  wind  has  subsided,  and  the  night  seems  to  him 
lovely  in  spite  of  the  misty  clouds  that  veil  the  sky. 
The  flowers  are  fragrant, — oh,  how  fair  life  is !  Sud- 
denly he  hears  a  light  step;  he  rises,  goes  into  the 
corridor,  and  finds  Zdena  putting  a  letter  into  the  post- 
bag.  He  approaches  her,  and  their  eyes  meet.  In 
vain  does  she  attempt  to  look  grave.  She  smiles,  and 
her  smile  is  mirrored  in  his  eyes. 

"To  whom  was  the  letter?"  he  asks,  going  towards 
her.  Not  that  there  is  a  spark  of  jealousy  left  in  hia 


"0  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA  I"  287 

heart  for  the  moment,  but  he  delights  to  coax  her 
secrets  from  her,  to  share  in  all  that  concerns  her. 

"  Is  it  any  affair  of  yours  ?"  she  asks,  with  dignity. 

"  No,  but  I  should  like  to  know." 

"  I  will  not  tell  you." 

"  Suppose  I  guess  ?" 

She  shrugs  her  shoulders. 

"To  Wenkendorf,"  he  whispers,  advancing  a  step 
nearer  her,  as  she  makes  no  reply. 

"What  did  he  write  to  you?"  Harry  persists. 

"  That  is  no  concern  of  yours." 

"  What  if  I  guess  that,  too  ?" 

"Then  I  hope  you  will  keep  your  knowledge  to 
yourself,  and  not  mention  your  guess  to  any  one," 
Zdena  exclaims,  eagerly. 

"  He  proposed  to  you,"  Harry  says,  softly. 

Zdena  sighs  impatiently. 

"  Well,  yes !"  she  admits  at  last,  turning  to  Harry  a 
blushing  face  as  she  goes  on.  "  But  I  really  could  not 
help  it.  I  did  what  I  could  to  prevent  it,  but  men  are 
so  conceited  and  headstrong.  If  one  of  them  takes  an 
idea  into  his  head  there  is  no  disabusing  him  of  it." 

"  Indeed !  is  that  the  way  with  all  men  ?"  Harry  asks, 
ready  to  burst  into  a  laugh. 

"Yes,  except  when  they  have  other  and  worse  faults, 
— are  suspicious  and  bad-tempered." 

"  But  then  these  last  repent  so  bitterly,  and  are  so 
ashamed  of  themselves." 

"  Oh,  as  for  that,  he  will  be  ashamed  of  himself  too." 
Then,  suddenly  growing  grave,  she  adds,  "  I  should  be 
very  sorry  to  have " 


288  "O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA /" 

"  To  have  any  one  hear  of  his  disappointed  hopes," 
Harry  interposes,  with  a  degree  of  malicious  triumph 
in  his  tone.  "  Do  not  fear ;  we  will  keep  his  secret." 

"  Good-night !"  She  takes  up  her  candlestick,  which 
Bhe  had  put  down  on  the  table  beside  which  they  are 
standing,  and  turns  towards  the  winding  staircase. 

"  Zdena !"  Harry  whispers,  softly. 

"What  is  it?" 

"  Nothing :  only — is  there  really  not  a  regret  in  your 
heart  for  the  wealth  you  have  rejected  7" 

She  shakes  her  head  slowly,  as  if  reflecting.  "  No," 
she  replies:  "what  good  would  it  have  done  me?  I 
could  not  have  enjoyed  it."  Then  she  suddenly  blushes 
crimson,  and,  turning  away  from  him,  goes  to  the  stair- 
case. 

"  Zdena !"  he  calls  again ;  "  Zdena !"  But  the  white 
figure  has  vanished  at  the  turn  of  the  steps,  and  he  is 
alone.  For  a  while  he  stands  gazing  into  the  darkness 
that  has  swallowed  her  up.  "  God  keep  you !"  he  mur- 
murs, tenderly,  and  finally  betakes  himself  to  his  room, 
with  no  thought,  however,  of  going  to  bed. 


"0  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!' 
CHAPTEE    XXIY. 

A  SLEEPLESS   NIGHT. 


No,  he  could  not  sleep ;  he  had  something  impor- 
tant to  do.  At  last  he  must  pluck  up  courage  and 
establish  his  position.  This  wretched  prevarication, 
this  double  dealing,  could  not  go  on  any  longer.  It  was 
ten  times  more  disgraceful  than  the  most  brutal  frank- 
ness. He  seated  himself  at  the  very  table  where, 
scarcely  more  than  a  day  before,  he  had  listened  to 
Lato's  confessions,  and  began  a  rough  sketch  of  his 
letter  to  Paula.  But  at  the  very  first  word  he  stopped. 
He  was  going  to  write,  "Dear  Paula,"  but  that  would 
never  do.  Could  he  address  her  thus  familiarly  when 
he  wanted  to  sever  all  relations  with  her?  Impossible  1 
"Honoured  Baroness"  he  could  not  write,  either;  it 
sounded  ridiculous,  applied  to  a  girl  with  whom  he 
had  sat  for  hours  in  the  last  fortnight.  He  decided 
to  begin,  "  Dear  Baroness  Paula."  He  dipped  his  pen 
in  the  ink,  and  wrote  the  words  in  a  distinct  hand: 
"Dear  Baroness  Paula,  I  cannot  express  to  you  the 
difficulty  I  find  in  telling  you  what  must,  however,  be 
told.  I  had  hoped  until  now  that  you  would  discover 
it  yourself " 

Thus  far  he  wrote  hurriedly,  and  as  if  in  scorn  of 

mortal  danger.    He  paused  now,  and  read  over  the 

few  words.     His  cheeks  burned.     No,  he  could  not 

write  that  to  a  lady :  as  well  might  he  strike  her  in  the 

N       t  25 


290  "O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!" 

face.  It  was  impossible.  But  what  should  he  do? 
At  last  an  idea  occurred  to  him, — how  strange  not  to 
have  thought  of  it  before!  He  must  appeal  to  her 
mother.  It  was  as  clear  as  daylight.  He  took  a  fresh 
sheet  of  paper,  having  torn  the  other  up  and  tossed  it 
under  the  table,  then  dipped  his  pen  anew  in  the  ink. 
But  no;  it  would  not  do.  Every  hour  that  he  had 
spent  with  Paula,  every  caress  he  had  allowed  her  to 
bestow  upon  him,  was  brought  up  before  him  by  his 
conscience,  which  did  not  spare  him  the  smallest  par- 
ticular. Lato's  words  recurred  to  him :  "  You  cannot 
disguise  from  yourself  the  fact  that  you — you  and 
Paula — produce  the  impression  of  a  devoted  pair  of 
lovers." 

He  set  his  teeth.  He  could  not  deny  that  his  con- 
duct  had  been  shameful.  Ho  could  not  sever  his  en- 
gagement to  her  without  a  lack  of  honour. 

Oh,  good  God  I  how  had  it  ever  come  to  pass  ?  "What 
had  induced  him  to  ride  over  to  Dobrotschau  day 
after  day  ?  He  had  always  been  sure  that  an  oppor- 
tunity for  an  explanation  would  occur.  When  with 
Paula  he  had  endured  her  advances  in  sullen  submis- 
sion, without  facing  the  consequences ;  he  had  simply 
been  annoyed ;  and  now He  shuddered. 

Once  more  he  took  up  the  pen,  but  in  vain ;  never 
before  had  he  felt  so  utterly  hopeless.  Every  limb 
ached  as  if  laden  with  fetters.  He  tossed  the  pen 
aside :  under  the  circumstances  he  could  not  write  the 
letter ;  Paula  herself  must  sever  the  tie,  if  it  could  be 
severed. 

If  it  could  be  severed !     What  did  that  mean  ?    He 


«  0  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!'1  291 

seemed  to  hear  the  words  spoken  aloud.  Nonsense! 
If  it  could  be  severed !  As  if  there  were  a  doubt  that 
it  could  be  severed !  But  how  ?  how  ? 

His  distress  was  terrible.  He  could  see  no  way  to 
extricate  himself.  Paula  must  be  compelled  to  release 
him  of  her  own  accord ;  but  how  was  it  to  be  dene  ? 
He  devised  the  wildest  schemes.  Could  he  be  caught 
flirting  with  a  gypsy  girl?  or  could  he  feign  to  be 
deeply  in  debt  ?  No,  no  more  feigning ;  and,  besides, 
what  would  it  avail  ?  She  would  forgive  everything. 

Suddenly  Yips  cried  out  in  his  sleep. 

"Yips!"  Harry  called,  to  waken  him,  going  to  his 
brother's  bedside. 

The  lad  opened  his  eyes,  heavy  with  sleep,  and  said, 
"  I  am  so  glad  you  waked  me  I  I  was  having  a  horrible 
dream  that  you  were  being  torn  to  pieces  by  a  furious 
leopard." 

u  You  foolish  boy !" 

"  Oh,  it  was  no  joke,  I  can  tell  you  1"  Then,  pulling 
his  brother  down  to  him,  he  went  on,  "  Zdena  took  the 
revolver  to  you, — I  saw  her  through  the  keyhole ;  not 
one  of  the  others  would  have  raised  a  finger  for  you. 
No,  there  is  no  one  in  the  world  like  our  Zdena."  Yips 
stroked  his  brother's  blue  sleeve  with  his  long,  slender 
hand.  "  Do  you  know,"  he  whispered  very  softly,  "  I 
have  no  doubt  that " 

Harry  frowned,  and  Yips  blushed,  shut  his  eyes,  and 
turned  his  face  to  the  wall. 

The  first  gleam  of  morning  was  breaking  its  way 
through  the  twilight ;  a  rosy  glow  illumined  the  east- 
ern horizon;  the  stream  began  to  glimmer,  and  then 


292  U0  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!" 

shone  like  molten  gold ;  long  shadows  detached  them- 
selves  from  the  universal  gray  and  stretched  across 
the  garden  among  the  dewy  flower-beds.  The  dew 
lay  everywhere,  glistening  like  silvery  dust  on  the 
blades  of  grass,  and  dripping  in  the  foliage  of  the  old 
apricot-tree  by  the  open  window  at  which  Harry  stood 
gazing  sadly  out  into  the  wondrous  beauty  of  the 
world.  The  cool  morning  breeze  fanned  his  check ; 
the  birds  began  to  twitter. 

The  young  fellow  was  conscious  of  the  discomfort 
of  a  night  spent  without  sleep ;  but  far  worse  than 
that  was  the  hopeless  misery  that  weighed  him  down. 

Hark !  what  was  that  ?  The  sound  of  bells,  the  trot 
of  horses  on  the  quiet  road.  Harry  leaned  forward. 
Who  was  that  ? 

Leaning  back  in  an  open  barouche,  a  gray  travelling- 
cap  on  his  head,  a  handsome  old  man  was  driving  along- 
the  road. 

"  Father  1"  exclaimed  Harry. 

The  old  gentleman  saw  him  from  the  carriage  and 
waved  his  hand  gaily.  In  a  twinkling  Harry  was 
opening  the  house-door. 

"I  have  surprised  you,  have  I  not?"  Karl  Leskje- 
witsch  exclaimed,  embracing  his  son.  "But  what's  the 
matter  with  you  ?  What  ails  you  ?  I  never  saw  you 
look  so  sallow, — you  rogue  1"  And  he  shook  his  fore- 
finger at  the  young  fellow. 

"Oh,  nothing, — nothing,  sir:  we  will  talk  of  it  by 
and  by.  Now  come  and  take  some  rest." 


O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  293 

CHAPTEE    XXY. 

THE   CONFESSION. 

BARON  LESKJEWITSCH  was  in  an  admirable  humour. 
Ho  brightened  up  the  entire  household.  The  Countess 
Zriny,  to  be  sure,  lamented  to  Fraulein  Laut  his  tireless 
loquacity,  but  perhaps  that  was  because  his  loquacity 
displayed  itself  principally  in  the  utterance  of  anti- 
Catholic  views. 

At  breakfast,  on  the  first  morning  after  his  arrival, 
he  cut  the  old  canoness  to  the  heart.  When  he  rallied 
her  upon  the  indigestible  nature  of  her  favourite  del- 
icacy, raspberry  jam  with  whipped  cream,  she  replied 
that  she  could  eat  it  with  perfect  impunity,  since  she 
always  mixed  a  teaspoonful  of  eau  de  Lourdes  with 
the  jam  before  adding  the  cream. 

Whereupon  the  Baron  called  this  preservative 
"  Catholic  quackery,"  and  was  annoyed  that  she  made 
no  reply  to  his  attack.  Like  a  former  emperor  of 
Eussia,  he  longed  for  opposition.  He  did  what  he 
could  to  rouse  Countess  Zriny's.  After  a  while  he 
asserted  that  she  was  a  heathen.  Catholicism  in  its 
modern  form,  with  its  picturesque  ritual  and  its  su- 
perstitious worship  of  the  saints,  was  nothing  more 
than  cowled  Paganism. 

The  Countess,  to  whom  this  rather  antiquated  wisdom 
was  new,  shuddered  with  horror,  and  regarded  the 
Baron  as  antichrist,  but  nevertheless  held  her  peace. 

25* 


294  "0  THOU,  MF  AUSTRIA  I" 

Then  he  played  his  last  trump.  He  informed  her 
that  he  regarded  the  Darwinian  theory  as  much  less 
irreligious  than  her,  Countess  Zriny's,  paltry  conception 
of  the  Deity.  Then  the  Countess  arose  and  left  the 
room,  to  write  immediately  to  her  father  confessor, 
expressing  her  anxieties  with  regard  to  her  cousin's 
soul,  and  asking  the  priest  to  say  a  mass  for  his  con- 
version. 

"  Poor  Kathi !  have  I  frightened  her  away  ?  I  didn't 
mean  to  do  that,"  said  the  Baron,  looking  after  her. 

No,  he  had  not  meant  to  do  it;  he  had  merely 
desired  to  arouse  opposition. 

"  A  splendid  subject  for  an  essay,"  he  exclaimed,  after 
a  pause, — "'the  Darwinian  theory  and  the  Catholic 
ritual  set  forth  by  a  man  of  true  piety.'  I  really  must 
publish  a  pamphlet  with  that  title.  It  may  bring  me 
into  collision  with  the  government,  but  that  would  not 
be  very  distressing." 

Privately  the  Baron  wished  for  nothing  more  earn- 
estly than  to  be  brought  into  collision  with  the 
government,  to  be  concerned  in  some  combination 
threatening  the  existence  of  the  monarchy.  But  just 
as  some  women,  in  spite  of  every  endeavour,  never 
succeed  in  compromising  themselves,  so  Karl  Leskje- 
witsch  had  never  yet  succeeded  in  seriously  embroil- 
ing himself  with  the  government.  No  one  took  him 
in  earnest;  even  when  he  made  the  most  incendiary 
speeches,  they  were  regarded  as  but  the  amusing  bab- 
ble of  a  political  dilettante. 

He  eagerly  availed  himself  of  any  occasion  to  utter 
his  paradoxes,  and  at  this  first  breakfast  ho  was  so 


"O  THOU,  MF  AUSTRIA  I"  295 

eloquent  that  gradually  all  at  the  table  followed  the 
example  of  Countess  Zriny,  in  leaving  it,  except  his 
eldest  son. 

He  lighted  a  cigar,  and  invited  Harry  to  go  into  the 
garden  with  him.  Harry,  who  had  been  longing  for  a 
word  with  his  father  in  private,  acceded  readily  to  his 
proposal. 

The  sun  shone  brightly,  the  flowers  in  the  beds 
sparkled  like  diamonds.  The  old  ruin  stood  brown  and 
clear  against  the  sky,  the  bees  hummed,  and  Fraulein 
Laut  was  practising  something  of  Brahms's.  Of  course 
she  had  seated  herself  at  the  piano  as  soon  as  the  dining- 
room  was  deserted. 

Harry  walked  beside  his  father,  with  bent  head, 
vainly  seeking  for  words  in  which  to  explain  his  un- 
fortunate case.  His  father  held  his  head  very  erect, 
kicked  the  pebbles  from  his  path  with  dignity,  talked 
very  fast,  and  asked  his  son  twenty  questions,  with- 
out waiting  for  an  answer  to  one  of  them. 

"Have  you  been  spending  all  your  leave  here? 
Does  it  not  bore  you  ?  Why  did  you  not  take  an  in- 
teresting trip?  Life  here  must  be  rather  tiresome; 
Heda  never  added  much  to  the  general  hilarity,  and 
as  for  poor  Kathi,  do  you  think  her  entertaining? 
She's  little  more  than  a  mouton  d  Veau  benite.  And 
then  that  sausage-chopper,"  with  a  glance  in  the 
direction  whence  proceeded  a  host  of  interesting 
dissonances.  "  Surely  you  must  have  found  your 
stay  here  a  veiy  heavy  affair.  Kathi  Zriny  is  harm- 
less, but  that  Laut — ugh ! — a  terrible  creature  I  Look 
at  her  hair;  it  looks  like  hay.  I  should  like  to  un- 


296  "O  THOU,  MF  AUSTRIA  I" 

derstand  the  aim  of  creation  in  producing  such  an 
article ;  we  have  no  use  for  it."  He  paused, — perhaps 
for  breath. 

"  Father,"  Harry  began,  meekly. 

«  Well  ?" 

"  I  should  like  to  tell  you  something." 

"  Tell  me,  then,  but  without  any  preface.  I  detest 
prefaces ;  I  never  read  them ;  in  fact,  a  book  is  usually 
spoiled  for  me  if  I  find  it  has  a  preface.  What  is  a 
preface  written  for  ?  Either  to  explain  the  book  that 
follows  it,  or  to  excuse  it.  And  why  read  a  book  that 
needs  explanation  or  excuses  ?  I  told  Franz  Weyser, 
the  famous  orator,  in  the  Reichsrath  the  other  day, 
that " 

"  Father,"  Harry  began  again,  in  a  tone  of  entreaty, 
aware  that  he  should  have  some  difficulty  in  obtaining 
a  hearing  for  his  confession. 

"What  an  infernally  sentimental  air  you  have! 
Aha!  I  begin  to  see.  You  have  evidently  fallen  in 
love  with  Zdena.  It  is  not  to  be  wondered  at ;  she's 
a  charming  creature — pretty  as  a  picture — looks 
amazingly  like  Charlotte  Buff,  of  Goethe  memory; 
all  that  is  needed  is  to  have  her  hair  dressed  high 
and  powdered.  What  can  I  say?  In  your  place  I 
should  have  been  no  wiser.  Moreover,  if  you  choose 
to  marry  poverty  for  love,  'tis  your  own  affair.  You 
must  remember  that  Franz  will  undoubtedly  stop  your 
allowance.  You  cannot  expect  much  from  Paul ;  and 
as  for  myself,  I  can  do  nothing  for  you  except  give 
you  my  blessing.  You  know  how  matters  stand  with 
me ;  and  I  must  think  of  your  sister,  who  never  can 


"0  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  297 

marry  without  a  dowry.  I  cannot  entirely  deprive 
myself  of  means :  a  politician  must  preserve  his  inde- 
pendence, for,  as  I  lately  said  to  Fritz  Bohm,  in  the 
Reichsrath " 

In  vain  had  Harry  tried  to  edge  in  a  word.  With 
a  bitter  smile  he  recalled  a  passage  in  a  Yienna 
humorous  paper  which,  under  the  heading  of  "A  dis- 
aster prevented,"  set  forth  the  peril  from  drowning 
from  which  the  entire  government  had  been  saved  by 
the  presence  of  mind  of  the  president  of  the  Reichs- 
rath,  Herr  Doctor  Smolka,  who  had  contrived  just  in 
the  nick  of  time  to  put  a  stop  to  a  torrent  of  words 
from  Baron  Karl  Leskjewitsch. 

Suddenly  the  Baron  stumbled  over  a  stone,  which 
fortunately  caused  him  to  pause. 

"  It  has  nothing  to  do  with  Zdena !"  Harry  exclaimed, 
seizing  his  opportunity. 

"Not?    Then " 

"  I  have  become  betrothed,"  Harry  almost  shouted, 
for  fear  of  not  making  his  father  hear. 

"  And  what  do  you  want  of  me  ?" 

"  You  must  help  me  to  break  the  engagement,"  his 
.  eon  cried,  in  despair. 

At  these  words  Karl  Leskjewitsch,  who  with  all  his 
confusion  of  ideas  had  managed  to  retain  a  strong  sense 
of  humour,  made  a  grimace,  and  pushed  back  the  straw 
hat  which  he  wore,  and  which  had  made  the  ascent  of 
Mount  Yesuvius  with  him  and  had  a  hole  in  the  crown, 
BO  that  it  nearly  fell  off  his  head. 

"  Ah,  indeed  I  First  of  all  I  should  like  to  know  to 
whom  you  are  betrothed, — the  result,  of  course,  of  gar- 


298  "  O  THOU,  MY  A  USTRIA  t" 

risen  life  in  some  small  town  ?    I  always  maintain  that 
for  a  cavalry  officer " 

Harry  felt  the  liveliest  desire  to  summon  the  aid  of 
Doctor  Smolka  to  stem  the  tide  of  his  father's  eloquence, 
>but,  since  this  could  not  be,  he  loudly  interrupted  him : 
'"I  am  betrothed  to  Paula  Harfink!" 

"Harfink!"  exclaimed  the  Baron.  "The  Harfinks 
of  K ?" 

"  Yes ;  they  are  at  Dobrotschau  this  summer,"  Harry 
explained. 

"So  she  is  your  betrothed, — the  Baroness  Paula? 
She  is  handsome ;  a  little  too  stout,  but  that  is  a  matter 
of  taste.  And  you  want  to  marry  her  ?" 

"  No,  no,  I  do  not  want  to  marry  her !"  Harry  ex- 
claimed, in  dismay. 

"  Oh,  indeed !  you  do  not  want  to  marry  her  ?"  mur- 
mured the  Baron.  "  And  why  not  ?" 

"  Because — because  I  do  not  love  her." 

"  Why  did  you  betroth  yourself  to  her  ?" 

Harry  briefly  explained  the  affair  to  his  father. 

The  Baron  looked  grave.  "  And  what  do  you  want 
me  to  do  ?"  he  asked,  after  a  long,  oppressive  silence. 

"Help  me  out,  father.  Put  your  veto  upon  this 
connection." 

"  What  will  my  veto  avail  ?  You  are  of  age,  and 
can  do  as  you  choose,"  said  the  Baron,  shaking  his 
head. 

"  Yes,  legally,"  Harry  rejoined,  impatiently,  "  but  I 
never  should  dream  of  marrying  against  your  will." 

Karl  Leskjewitsch  found  this  assurance  of  filial  sub- 
mission on  his  son's  part  very  amusing.  He  looked 


«O  7720 U,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  299 

askance  at  the  young  fellow,  and,  suppressing  a  smile, 
extended  his  hand  after  a  pompous  theatric  fashion  and 
oxclaimed,  "  I  thank  you  for  those  words.  They  rejoice 
my  paternal  heart."  Then,  after  swinging  his  son's 
hand  up  and  down  like  a  pump-handle,  he  dropped  it 
and  said,  dryly,  "  Unfortunately,  I  have  not  the  slight- 
est objection  to  your  betrothal  to  the  Harfink  girl. 
What  pretext  shall  I  make  use  of?" 

"  Well," — Harry  blushed, — "  you  might  say  you  can- 
not consent  to  the  mesalliance." 

"  Indeed !  Thanks  for  the  suggestion.  I  belong  to 
the  Liberal  party,  and  do  not  feel  called  upon  to  play 
the  part  of  an  aristocratic  Cerberus  defending  his 
prejudices."  Here  the  Baron  took  out  his  note-book. 
"  Aristocratic  Cerberus,"  he  murmured ;  "  that  may  be 
useful  some  day  in  the  Eeichsrath.  Besides,"  he  con- 
tinued, "  it  would  just  now  be  particularly  unpleasant 
to  quarrel  with  the  Harfinks.  If  you  had  asked  me 
before  your  betrothal  whether  I  should  like  it,  I  should 
have  frankly  said  no.  The  connection  is  a  vulgar 
one ;  but,  since  matters  have  gone  so  far,  I  do  not  like 
to  make  a  disturbance.  The  brother  of  the  girl's 
mother,  Doctor  Griinbart,  is  one  of  the  leaders  of  our 
party.  Ho  formerly  conducted  himself  towards  me 
with  great  reserve,  suspecting  that  my  liberal  tenden- 
cies were  duo  merely  to  a  whim, — to  a  fleeting  caprice. 
I  met  him,  however,  a  short  time  ago,  on  my  tour 
through  Sweden  and  Norway.  He  was  travelling  with 
his  wife  and  daughter.  We  travelled  together.  He  is 
a  very  clever  man,  but — between  ourselves — intolerable, 
and  with  dirty  nails.  As  for  his  women-folk, — good 


300  "0  THOU,  MF  AUSTRIA  I" 

heavens  I"  The  Baron  clasped  his  hands.  "  The  wife 
always  eat  the  heads  of  the  trout  which  I  left  in  the 
dish,  and  the  daughter  travelled  in  a  light-blue  gown, 
with  a  green  botany-box  hanging  at  her  back,  and  such 
teeth, — horrible  I  The  wife  is  a  schoolmaster's  daugh- 
ter, who  married  the  old  man  to  rid  herself  of  a 
student  lover.  Very  worthy,  but  intolerable.  I  trav- 
elled with  them  for  six  weeks,  and  won  the  Doctor's 
heart  by  my  courtesy  to  his  wife  and  daughter.  I 
should  have  been  more  cautious  if  I  had  been  at  house- 
keeping in  Yienna,  although  the  most  violent  Austrian 
democrats  are  very  reasonable  in  social  respects,  es- 
pecially with  regard  to  their  women.  They  are  flattered 
by  attention  to  them  on  a  journey,  but  they  are  not 
aggressive  at  home.  This,  however,  is  not  to  the 
point." 

It  did  indeed  seem  not  to  the  point  to  Harry,  who 
bit  his  lip  and  privately  clinched  his  fist.  He  was  on 
the  rack  during  his  father's  rambling  discourse. 

"What  I  wanted  to  say" — the  Baron  resumed  the 
thread  of  his  discourse — "  is,  that  this  democrat's  pride 
is  his  elegant  sister,  Baroness  Harfink,  and  the  fact 
that  she  was  once  invited,  after  great  exertions  in 
some  charitable  undertaking,  to  a  ball  at  the  Princess 
Colloredo's — I  think  it  was  at  the  Colloredo's.  I  should 
like  to  have  seen  her  there!"  He  rubbed  his 
hands  and  smiled.  "  My  democrat  maintains  that  she 
looked  more  distinguished  than  the  hostess.  You  un- 
derstand that  if  I  should  wound  his  family  pride  I 
could  not  hope  for  his  support  in  the  Eeichsrath, 
where  I  depend  upon  it  to  procure  me  a  hearing." 


"O  THOU,  MF  AUSTRIA  1"  301 

Harry  privately  thought  that  it  would  be  meritorious 
to  avert  such  a  calamity,  but  he  said,  "  Ah,  father,  that 
democrat's  support  is  not  so  necessary  as  you  think. 
Depend  upon  it,  you  will  be  heard  without  it.  And  then 
a  quarrel  with  a  politician  would  cause  you  only  a  tem- 
porary annoyance,  while  the  continuance  of  my  be- 
trothal to  Paula  will  simply  kill  me.  I  have  done  my 
best  to  show  her  the  state  of  my  feelings  towards  her. 
She  does  not  understand  me.  There  is  nothing  for  it 
but  for  you  to  undertake  the  affair."  Harry  clasped 
his  hands  in  entreaty,  like  a  boy.  "Do  it  for  my  sake. 
You  are  the  only  one  who  can  help  me." 

Baron  Karl  was  touched.  He  promised  everything 
that  his  son  asked  of  him. 


CHAPTEE   XXVI. 
THE  BARON'S  AID. 

THE  Baron  never  liked  to  postpone  what  he  had  to 
do ;  it  was  against  his  principles  and  his  nature.  The 
matter  must  be  attended  to  at  once.  As  soon  as  the 
mid-day  meal  was  over,  he  had  the  carriage  brought, 
put  on  a  black  coat,  and  set  out  for  Dobrotschau. 

The  fountain  plashed  dreamily  as  he  drove  into  the 
castle  court-yard.  The  afternoon  sun  glittered  on  the 
water,  and  a  great  dog  came  towards  him  as  he 
alighted,  and  thrust  his  nose  into  his  hand.  He  knew 
the  old  dog. 

26 


302  "0  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!" 

"  How  are  you,  old  friend  ?  how  does  the  new  regime 
suit  you  ?"  he  said,  patting  the  animal's  head.  Two 
footmen  hurried  forward  in  drab  breeches  and  striped 
vests.  To  one  of  them  Baron  Karl  gave  his  card,  and 
then  awaited  the  mistress  of  the  mansion  in  the 
spacious  and  rather  dark  drawing-room  into  which  he 
had  been  shown. 

He  looked  about  him,  and  was  very  well  pleased. 
The  tall  windows  of  the  room  were  draped  with  pale- 
green  silk ;  the  furniture,  various  in  shape  and  style, 
was  all  convenient  and  handsome;  vases  filled  with 
flowers  stood  here  and  there  on  stands  and  tables ;  and 
in  a  black  ebony  cabinet,  behind  glass  doors,  there  was 
a  fine  collection  of  old  porcelain.  The  Baron  was  a 
connoisseur  in  old  porcelain,  and  had  just  risen  to 
examine  these  specimens,  when  the  servant  returned 
to  conduct  him  to  the  Baroness's  presence. 

Baron  Karl's  heart  throbbed  a  little  fast  at  the 
thought  of  his  mission,  and  he  privately  anathema- 
tized "  the  stupid  boy"  who  had  been  the  cause  of  it. 

"Since  he  got  himself  into  the  scrape,  he  might 
have  got  himself  out  of  it,"  he  thought,  as  he  followed 
the  lackey,  who  showed  him  into  a  small  but  charming 
boudoir,  fitted  up  after  a  rural  fashion  with  light  cre- 
tonne. 

"  I'm  in  for  it,"  the  Baron  thought,  in  English.  He 
liked  to  sprinkle  his  soliloquies  with  English  phrases, 
having  a  great  preference  for  England,  whence  he 
imported  his  clothes,  his  soap,  and  his  political  ideas 
of  reform  en  gros.  In  the  Eeichsrath  they  called  him 
"  Old  England." 


"O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  303 

As  he  entered  the  pretty  room,  a  lady  rose  from  a 
low  lounge  and  came  towards  him  with  outstretched 
hands.  Those  hands  were  small,  soft,  and  shapely, 
and  the  rings  adorning  the  third  finger  of  one  of  them 
— a  ruby  and  a  large  diamond,  both  very  simply  set — 
became  them  well.  Baron  Karl  could  not  help  carry- 
ing one  of  them  to  his  lips ;  thus  much,  he  thought,  he 
owed  the  poor  woman  in  view  of  the  pain  he  was 
about  to  inflict  upon  her.  Frau  von  Harfink  said  a  few 
pleasant  words  of  welcome,  to  which  he  replied  cour- 
teously, and  then,  having  taken  his  seat  in  a  comfortable 
arm-chair  near  her  favourite  lounge,  the  conversation 
came  to  a  stand-still.  The  Baron  looked  in  some  con- 
fusion at  his  hostess.  There  was  no  denying  that,  in 
spite  of  her  fifty  years,  she  was  a  pretty  woman.  Her 
features  were  regular,  her  teeth  dazzling,  and  if  there 
was  a  touch  of  rouge  on  her  cheeks,  that  was  her 
affair ;  it  did  not  affect  her  general  appearance.  The 
fair  hair  that  was  parted  to  lie  in  smooth  waves  above 
her  brow  was  still  thick,  and  the  little  lace  cap  was 
very  becoming.  Her  short,  full  figure  was  not  without 
charm,  and  her  gown  of  black  crepe  de  Chine  fitted 
faultlessly.  The  Baron  could  not  help  thinking  that  it 
would  be  easier  to  give  her  pain  if  she  were  ugly. 
There  was  really  no  objection  to  make  to  her.  He  had 
hoped  she  would  resemble  his  friend  Doctor  Grunbart, 
but  she  did  not  resemble  him.  While  he  pondered 
thus,  Frau  von  Harfink  stretched  out  her  hand  to  the 
bell-rope. 

"  My  daughters  are  both  out  in  the  park ;  they  will 
be  extremely  glad  to  see  you,  especially  Paula,  who 


304  "O  THOU,  3f*  AUSTRIA!" 

has  been  most  impatient  to  know  you.  I  will  send 
for  them  immediately." 

Karl  Leskjewitsch  prevented  her  from  ringing. 
"  One  moment,  first,"  he  begged ;  "  I — I  am  here  upon 
very  serious  business." 

Her  eyes  scanned  his  face  keenly.  Did  she  guess  ? 
did  she  choose  not  to  understand  him  ?  Who  can  tell  ? 
Certain  it  is  that  no  woman  could  have  made  what 
he  had  come  to  say  more  difficult  to  utter. 

"  Oh,  let '  serious  business'  go  for  the  present !"  she 
exclaimed ;  "  there  is  time  enough  for  that.  A  mother's 
heart  of  course  is  full " 

In  his  confusion  the  Baron  had  picked  up  a  pam- 
phlet lying  on  the  table  between  Frau  von  Harfink 
and  himself.  Imagine  his  sensations  when,  upon  look- 
ing at  it  closely,  he  recognized  his  own  work, — a  pam- 
phlet upon  "  Servility  among  Liberals," — a  piece  of 
political  bravado  upon  which  the  author  had  prided 
himself  not  a  little  at  the  time  of  its  publication,  but 
which,  like  many  another  masterpiece,  had  vanished 
without  a  trace  in  the  yearly  torrent  of  such  litera- 
ture. Not  only  were  the  leaves  of  this  pamphlet  cut, 
but  as  the  Baron  glanced  through  it  he  saw  that  vari- 
ous passages  were  underscored  with  pencil-marks. 

"You  see  how  well  known  you  are  here,  my  dear 
Baron,"  said  Frau  von  Harfink,  and  then,  taking  his 
hat  from  him,  she  went  on,  "  I  cannot  have  you  pay 
us  a  formal  visit :  you  will  stay  and  have  a  cup  of  tea, 
will  you  not?  Do  you  know  that  I  am  a  little  em- 
barrassed in  the  presence  of  the  author  of  that  master- 
piece ?" 


«O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA  I"  305 

"  Ah,  pray,  madame !" — the  democrat  par  excellence 
could  not  exactly  bring  himself  to  an  acknowledgment 
of  Frau  von  Harfink's  brand-new  patent  of  nobility, 
— "  ah,  madame,  the  merest  trifle,  a  political  caprictio 
with  which  I  beguiled  an  idle  hour ;  not  worth  men- 
tioning." 

"Great  in  small  things,  my  dear  Baron,  great  in 
email  things,"  she  rejoined.  "No  one  since  Schopen- 
hauer has  understood  how  to  use  the  German  language 
as  you  do.  So  admirable  a  style ! — precise,  transparent, 
and  elegant  as  finely-cut  glass.  And  what  a  wealth  of 
original  aphorisms !  You  are  a  little  sharp  here  and 
there,  almost  cruel," — she  shook  her  forefinger  at  him 
archly, — "  but  the  truth  is  always  cruel." 

"A  remarkably  clever  woman  I"  thought  Baron 
Karl.  Of  course  he  could  not  refrain  from  returning 
such  courtesy.  "  This  summer,  in  a  little  trip  to  the 
North  Cape" — Leskjewitsch  was  wont  always  to  refer 
to  his  travels  as  little  trips ;  a  journey  to  California  he 
would  have  liked  to  call  a  picnic — "  in  a  little  trip  to 
the  North  Cape,  I  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting  your 
brother,  Baroness," — he  cleared  his  throat  before  utter- 
ing the  word,  but  he  accomplished  it.  "We  had 
known  each  other  politically  in  the  Reichsrath,  but 
in  those  northern  regions  our  acquaintance  quickly 
ripened  into  friendship." 

"I  have  heard  all  about  it  already,"  said  the 
Baroness :  "  it  was  my  brother  who  called  my  atten- 
tion to  this  pearl."  She  pointed  to  the  pamphlet. 
"Of  course  he  had  no  idea  of  the  closer  relations 
which  we  are  to  hold  with  each  other  j  he  simply  de- 

u  26* 


306  "O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!" 

scribed  to  me  the  impression  you  made   upon  him. 
Ah,  I  must  read  you  one  of  his  letters." 

She  opened  a  drawer  in  her  writing-table,  and  un- 
folded a  long  letter,  from  which  she  began  to  read, 
then  interrupted  herself,  turned  the  sheet,  and  finally 
found  the  place  for  which  she  was  looking : 

"Baron  Karl  Loskjewitsch  is  an  extremely  clever 
individual,  brilliantly  gifted  by  nature.  His  misfor- 
tune has  been  that  in  forsaking  the  Conservatives  he 
has  failed  to  win  the  entire  confidence  of  the  Liberals. 
Now  that  I  know  him  well,  I  am  ready  to  use  all  my 
influence  to  support  him  in  his  career,  and  I  do  not 
doubt  that  I  shall  succeed  in  securing  for  him  the  dis 
tinguished  position  for  which  he  is  fitted.  I  see  in 
him  the  future  Austrian  Minister  of  Foreign  Affairs." 

A  few  minutes  previously  Baron  Karl  had  been  con. 
Bcious  of  some  discomfort ;  every  trace  of  it  had  now 
vanished.  He  was  fairly  intoxicated.  He  saw  him- 
self a  great  statesman,  and  was  already  pondering 
upon  what  to  say  in  his  first  important  conference 
with  the  Chancellor  of  the  realm. 

"  Pray,  give  my  warm  regards  to  Doctor  Grunbart 
when  you  next  write  to  him,"  he  began,  not  without 
condescension,  when  suddenly  a  young  lady  hurried 
into  the  room, — tall,  stout,  with  Titian  hair  and  a 
dazzling  complexion,  her  chest  heaving,  her  eyes 
sparkling.  In  the  Baron's  present  mood  she  seemed 
to  him  beautiful  as  a  young  goddess.  "  By  Jove  I  the 
boy  has  made  a  hit,"  he  thought  to  himself.  The 
vague  sense  of  discomfort  returned  for  a  moment,  but 
vanished  when  Paula  advanced  towards  him  with  out- 


"0  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  307 

stretched  hands.  He  drew  her  to  him,  and  imprinted 
a  paternal  kiss  upon  her  forehead.  Selina  and  Fai- 
nacky  now  made  their  appearance.  It  was  quite  a 
domestic  scene. 

The  Baroness  rang,  and  the  tea-equipage  was  brought 
in  for  afternoon  tea.  Olga  made  her  appearance,  but 
Treurenberg  was  absent ;  Selina  remarked,  crossly,  that 
\ie  was  again  spending  the  afternoon  with  the  officers 

at  X .  Baron  Karl  was  throned  upon  roses  and 

inhaling  sweet  incense,  when  finally  the  Baroness, 
lightly  touching  his  arm,  asked  before  all  present, — 

"  And  the  '  serious  business'  you  came  to  consult  me 
about?"  He  started,  and  was  mute,  while  the  lady 
went  on,  archly,  "What  if  I  guess  its  import?  You 
came  in  Harry's  behalf,  did  you  not  ?" 

Baron  Karl  bowed  his  head  in  assent. 

"  To  arrange  the  day,  was  it  not  ?" 

What  could  the  poor  man  do  ?  Before  he  had  time 
to  reflect,  the  Baroness  said,  "  We  have  considered  the 
matter  already ;  we  must  be  in  no  hurry, — no  hurry. 
It  always  is  a  sore  subject  for  a  mother,  the  appointing 
a  definite  time  for  her  separation  from  her  daughter, 
and  every  girl,  however  much  in  love  she  may  be," — 
here  the  Baroness  glanced  at  her  stout  Paula,  who 
did  her  best  to  assume  an  air  of  maidenly  reserve, — 
"  would  like  to  postpone  the  marriage-day.  But  men 
do  not  like  to  wait ;  therefore,  all  things  considered,  I 
have  thought  of  the  19th  of  October  as  the  day. 
Tell  Harry  so  from  me,  and  scold  him  well  for  not 
doing  his  errand  himself.  His  delicacy  of  sentiment 
is  really  exaggerated  1  An  old  woman  may  be  par- 


308  "0  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!" 

doned  for  a  little  enthusiasm  for  a  future  son-in-law, 
may  she  not  ?" 

Shortly  afterwards  Baron  Leskjewitsch  was  driving 
home  along  the  road  by  which  he  had  come.  Tho 
shadows  had  lengthened ;  a  cold  air  ascended  from  the 
earth.  Gradually  the  Baron's  consciousness,  drugged 
by  the  flattery  he  had  received,  awoke,  and  he  felt 
extremely  uncomfortable.  What  had  he  effected  ?  He 
was  going  home  after  a  fruitless  visit, — no,  not  fruit- 
less. Harry's  affairs  were  in  a  worse  condition  than 
before.  He  had  absolutely  placed  the  official  seal  upon 
his  son's  betrothal. 

What  else  could  he  have  done  ?  He  could  not  have 
made  a  quarrel.  He  could  not  alienate  Doctor  Griin- 
bart's  sister.  The  welfare  of  the  government  might 
depend  upon  his  friendly  alliance  with  the  leader  of 
the  democratic  party.  His  fancy  spread  its  wings  and 
took  its  flight  to  higher  spheres, — he  really  had  no 
time  to  trouble  himself  about  his  son's  petty  destiny. 
His  ambition  soared  high:  he  saw  himself  about  to 
reform  the  monarchy  with  the  aid  of  Doctor  Grun- 
bart,  whose  importance,  however,  decreased  as  his  own 
waxed  great. 

He  drove  through  the  ruinous  archway  into  the  court- 
yard. A  light  wagon  was  standing  before  the  house. 
When  he  asked  whose  it  was,  he  was  told  that  it  had 
come  from  Zirkow  to  take  home  the  Baroness  Zdena. 
He  went  to  the  dining-room,  whence  came  the  sound 
of  gay  voices  and  laughter.  They  were  all  at  supper, 
and  seemed  very  merry,  so  merry  that  they  had  not 
heard  him  arrive. 


"0  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  309 

Twilight  was  already  darkening  the  room  when  the 
Baron  entered  by  one  door  at  the  same  moment  that 
Blasius  with  the  lamp  made  his  appearance  at  the 
other.  The  lamplight  fell  full  upon  the  group  about 
the  table,  and  Baron  Karl's  eyes  encountered  those  of 
his  son,  beaming  with  delight.  Poor  fellow !  He  had 
not  entertained  a  doubt  that  everything  would  turn 
out  well.  Zdena,  too,  looked  up ;  her  lips  were  redder 
than  usual,  and  there  was  a  particularly  tender,  touch- 
ing expression  about  her  mouth,  while  in  her  eyes 
there  was  a  shy  delight.  There  was  no  denying  it, 
the  girl  was  exquisitely  beautiful. 

She  had  guessed  Baron  Karl's  errand  to  Dobrotschau. 
She  divined 

Pshaw !  The  Baron  felt  dizzy  for  a  moment, — but, 
after  all,  such  things  must  be  borne.  Such  trifles  must 
not  influence  the  future  '  Canning'  of  Austria. 

Blasius  set  down  the  lamp.  How  comfortable  and 
home-like  the  well-spread  table  looked,  at  the  head 
the  little  army  of  cream-pitchers  and  jugs,  over  which 
the  Countess  Zriny  was  presiding. 

"  A  cup  of  coffee  ?"  the  old  canoness  asked  the  new- 
comer. 

"  No,  no,  thanks,"  he  said.  Something  in  his  voice 
told  Harry  everything. 

The  Baron  tried  to  take  his  place  at  table,  that  the 
moment  for  explanation  might  be  postponed,  but  Harry 
could  not  wait. 

"  Something  has  occurred  to-day  upon  the  farm  about 
which  I  want  to  consult  you,  sir,"  he  said.  "  "Will  you 
not  come  with  me  for  a  moment  ?"  And  he  made  a 


310  "O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA  I" 

miserably  unsuccessful  attempt  to  look  as  if  it  were  a 
matter  of  small  importance.  The  two  men  went  into 
the  next  room,  where  it  was  already  so  dark  that  they 
could  not  see  each  other's  faces  distinctly.  Harry  lit 
a  candle,  and  placed  it  on  the  table  between  his  father 
and  himself. 

"Well,  father?" 

"  My  dear  boy,  there  was  nothing  to  be  done,"  the 
Baron  replied,  hesitating.  For  a  moment  the  young 
man's  misery  made  an  impression  upon  him,  but  then 
his  invincible  loquacity  burst  forth.  "There  was 
nothing  to  be  done,  Harry,"  he  repeated.  And,  with 
a  wave  of  his  hand  implying  true  nobility  of  senti- 
ment, he  went  on :  "A  betrothal  is  a  contract  sealed 
by  a  promise.  From  a  promise  one  may  be  released  ; 
it  cannot  be  broken.  When  the  Harfinks  refused  to 
see  the  drift  of  my  hints,  and  release  you  from  your 
promise,  there  was  nothing  left  for  me  save  to  acqui- 
esce. As  a  man  of  honour,  a  gentleman,  I  could  do 
no  less  ;  I  could  not  possibly  demand  your  release." 

Baron  Karl  looked  apprehensively  at  his  son,  with 
whose  quick  temper  he  was  familiar,  expecting  to  be 
overwhelmed  by  a  torrent  of  reproaches,  of  bitter, 
provoking  words,  sure  that  the  young  man  would  be 
led  into  some  display  of  violence ;  but  nothing  of  the 
kind  ensued.  Harry  stood  perfectly  quiet  opposite  his 
father,  one  hand  leaning  upon  the  table  where  burned 
the  candle.  His  head  drooped  a  little,  and  he  was  very 
pale,  but  not  a  finger  moved  when  his  father  added, 
"  You  understand  that  I  could  do  nothing  further  ?" 

He  murmured,  merely,  "Yes,  I  understand."     His 


"0  THOU,  Mr  AUSTRIA  I"  311 

voice  sounded  thin  and  hoarse,  like  the  voice  of  a  sick 
child;  and  then  he  fell  silent  again.  After  a  pause, 
he  said,  in  a  still  lower  tone,  "  Uncle  Paul  has  sent  the 
wagon  for  Zdena,  with  a  note  asking  me  to  drive  her 
back  to  Zirkow.  It  has  been  waiting  for  an  hour  and 
a  half,  because  Zdena  did  not  want  to  leave  before  your 
return.  Pray,  do  me  the  favour  to  drive  her  home  in 
my  place :  I  cannot." 

Then  the  young  fellow  turned  away  and  went  to  a 
window,  outside  of  which  the  old  apricot-trees  rustled 
and  sighed. 

Baron  Karl  was  very  sorry  for  his  son,  but  what  else 
could  he  have  done  ?  Surely  his  case  was  a  hard  one. 
He  seemed  to  himself  a  very  Junius  Brutus,  sacrificing 
his  son  to  his  country.  And  having  succeeded  finally 
in  regarding  in  this  magnanimous  light  the  part  he 
had  played,  he  felt  perfectly  at  peace  with  himself 
again. 

He  left  the  room,  promising  to  attend  to  Zdena's 
return  to  Zirkow.  But  Harry  remained  standing  by 
the  window,  gazing  out  into  the  gathering  gloom. 
The  very  heart  within  his  breast  seemed  turning  to 
stone.  He  knew  now  that  what  he  had  at  first  held 
to  be  merely  a  ridiculous  annoyance  had  come  to  be 
bitter  earnest, — yes,  terrible  earnest !  No  escape  was 
possible;  he  could  see  no  hope  of  rescue;  a  miracle 
would  have  to  occur  to  release  him,  and  he  did  not 
believe  in  miracles. 


312  "  O  THO  U,  MY  A  USTRIA  I" 

CHAPTBE   XXVII. 

BARON   FRANZ. 

EVERY  year,  towards  the  end  of  August,  Baron 
Franz  Leskjewitsch,  the  family  scarecrow  and  Croesus, 
•was  wont  to  appear  at  his  estate,  Vorhabshen,  near 
Zirkow,  to  learn  the  condition  of  the  harvest,  to  spend 
a  few  days  in  hunting,  and  to  abuse  everything  and 
everybody  before,  at  the  end  of  a  couple  of  weeks, 
vanishing  as  suddenly  as  he  had  appeared. 

On  these  occasions  he  avoided  his  brother  Paul  with 
evident  determination.  If  any  of  the  family  were  at 
Komaritz,  he  invited  them  to  dinner  once  or  twice,  at 
such  times  taking  pains  to  make  himself  particularly 
offensive  to  Heda,  whom  he  could  not  endure. 

He  had  never  spent  any  length  of  time  at  Yorhab- 
shen  since  the  family  quarrel,  and  in  consequence  the 
dwelling-house,  or  castle,  upon  -which,  miser  that  he 
was,  he  never  would  spend  a  penny  for  repairs,  had 
come  to  be  tumble-down  and  sordid  in  appearance,  both 
inside  and  out.  It  was  a  huge  structure,  with  numer- 
ous windows,  in  which  many  of  the  sashes  were 
sprung  and  some  destitute  of  panes,  never  having  been 
reglazed  since  the  last  hail-storm  had  worked  ruin 
among  them. 

Among  the  family  portraits,  which  hung  in  a  dark, 
oak-wainscoted  gallery,  the  pigeons  built  their  nests. 

Like  many  another  Bohemian  castle,  the  mansion  at 


"0  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA  I"  313 

Vorhabshen  was  built  close  to  the  farm-yard,  and  its 
front  faced  an  immense,  light-brown  manure-heap. 

The  inmates  of  this  unpicturesque  ruin — whose  duty 
it  was  to  keep  it  ready  for  its  master's  brief  visits — 
were,  first,  the  housekeeper,  Lotta  Papoushek;  then 
the  Baron's  court-fool,  the  former  brewer  Studnecka, 
who  at  times  imagined  himself  the  prophet  Elisha,  and 
at  other  times  a  great  musical  genius ;  then  the  super- 
intendent, with  his  underlings ;  and  finally,  any  young 
man  who  might  be  tempted  to  come  hither  to  study 
modern  agriculture,  and  whose  studies  were  generally 
confined  to  allowing  himself  to  be  pampered  by  the 
housekeeper  Lotta,  who  had  all  the  admiration  of  her 
class  for  courteous  young  people. 

Frau  Lotta  had  been  in  the  Baron's  service  for  more 
than  forty  years.  Her  large  face  was  red,  dotted  with 
brown  warts,  and  her  features  were  hard  and  mascu- 
line. Although  she  certainly  was  far  from  attractive  in 
appearance,  there  was  a  report  that  she  had  once  been 
handsome,  and  that  Baron  Franz,  when  he  received 
the  news  of  his  son's  marriage  with  Marie  Duval,  had 
exclaimed,  "I'll  marry  my  housekeeper!  I'll  marry 
Lotta!"  How  this  would  have  aided  to  re-establish 
the  family  prestige  it  is  difficult  to  say,  and  it  is  doubt- 
ful whether  the  speech  was  made ;  but  twenty  years 
afterwards  Lotta  used  to  tell  of  it,  and  of  how  she  had 
replied,  "  That  would  be  too  nonsensical,  Herr  Baron !" 
Notwithstanding  her  peculiarities  and  her  overweening 
self-conceit,  she  was  a  thoroughly  good  creature,  and 
devoted  heart  and  soul  to  the  Leskjewitsch  family. 
Her  absolute  honesty  induced  the  Baron  to  make  her 
o  27 


314  "O  THOU,  MF  AUSTRIA  I" 

authority  at  Vorhabshen  paramount,  to  the  annoyance 
of  the  superintendent  and  his  men. 

It  was  a  clear  afternoon, — the  1st  of  September; 
the  steam  thresher  was  at  work  in  the  farm-yard,  and 
its  dreary  puffing  and  groaning  were  audible  in  Lotta's 
email  sitting-room,  on  the  ground-floor  of  the  mansion, 
where  she  was  refreshing  herself  with  a  cup  of  coffee, 
having  invited  the  student  of  agriculture — a  young 
Herr  von  Kraschinsky — to  share  her  nectar. 

She  had  been  regaling  him  with  choice  bits  of  family 
history,  as  he  lay  back  comfortably  in  an  arm-chair, 
looking  very  drowsy,  when,  after  a  pause,  she  re- 
marked, as  if  in  soliloquy,  "I  should  like  to  know 
where  the  master  is;  I  have  had  no  answer  to  the 
long  letter  I  sent  to  him  at  Franzburg." 

"  Oh,  you  correspond  with  the  Baron,  do  you  ?"  mur- 
mured the  student,  too  lazy  to  articulate  distinctly. 

"Of  course  I  do.  You  must  not  forget  that  my 
position  in  the  Leskjewitsch  family  is  higher  than  that 
of  a  servant.  I  was  once  governess  to  our  poor,  dear 
Baron  Fritz;  and  I  have  always  been  devoted  to 
them." 

In  fact,  Lotta  had  been  Fritz's  nurse ;  and  it  was  true 
that  she  had  always  been  much  valued,  having  been 
treated  with  great  consideration  on  account  of  her 
absolute  fidelity  and  her  tolerably  correct  German. 

"  Yes,"  she  went  on,  careless  as  to  her  companion's 
attention,  "  I  wrote  to  the  Baron  about  the  wheat  and 
the  young  calves,  and  I  told  him  of  Baron  Harry's 
betrothal.  I  am  curious  to  know  what  he  will  say  to 
it.  For  my  part,  it  is  not  at  all  to  my  taste." 


«O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA  I"  315 

"  But  then  you  are  so  frightfully  aristocratic,"  said 
her  guest. 

Lotta  smiled ;  nothing  pleased  her  more  than  to  be 
rallied  upon  her  aristocratic  tendencies,  although  she 
made  haste  to  disclaim  them.  "  Oh,  no ;  I  am  by  no 
means  so  feudal" — a  favourite  word  of  hers,  learned 
from  a  circulating  library  to  which  she  subscribed — 
"as  you  think.  I  never  shall  forget  how  I  tried  to 
bring  about  a  reconciliation  between  Baron  Fritz  and 
his  father ;  but  the  master  was  furious,  called  the  widow 
and  her  little  child,  after  poor  Fritz's  death,  '  French 
baggage,'  and  threatened  me  with  dismissal  if  I  ever 
spoke  of  them.  What  could  I  do?  I  could  not  go 
near  the  little  girl  when  Baron  Paul  brought  her  to 
Zirkow ;  but  I  have  watched  her  from  a  distance,  and 
have  rejoiced  to  see  her  grow  lovelier  every  year,  and 
the  very  image  of  her  father.  And  when  all  the 
country  around  declared  that  Baron  Harry  was  in  love 
with  her,  I  was  glad;  but  our  master  was  furious, 
although  the  young  things  were  then  mere  children, 
and  declared  that  not  one  penny  of  his  money  should 
his  nephew  have  if  he  married  the  child  of  that  shop- 
girl. I  suppose  Baron  Harry  has  taken  all  this  into 
consideration."  The  old  woman's  face  grew  stern  as 
she  folded  her  arms  on  her  flat  chest  and  declared 
again,  "I  am  curious  to  know  what  the  master  will 
think  of  this  betrothal." 

Outside  in  the  farm-yard  the  steam  thresher  contin- 
ued its  monotonous  task ;  the  superintendent,  a  young 
man,  something  of  a  coxcomb,  stood  apart  from  the 
puffing  monster,  a  volume  of  Lenau  in  his  hand,  learn- 


316  "0  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!" 

ing  by  heart  a  poem  which  he  intended  to  recite  at 
the  next  meeting  of  the  "Concordia  Association,"  in 

X .  The  court-fool,  Studnecka,  was  seated  at  his 

harmonium,  composing. 

Suddenly  a  clumsy  post-chaise  rattled  into  the  court- 
yard. The  superintendent  started,  and  thrust  his 
Lenau  into  his  pocket.  Lotta  smoothed  her  gray  hair, 
and  went  to  meet  the  arrival.  She  knew  that  "the 
master"  had  come.  It  was  his  habit  to  appear  thus 
unexpectedly,  when  it  was  impossible  to  be  prepared 
for  him.  His  masculine  employees  disliked  this  fashion 
extremely.  Lotta  was  not  at  all  disturbed  by  it. 

Studnecka  was  the  last  to  notice  that  something 
unusual  was  going  on.  When  he  did  so,  he  left  the 
harmonium  and  went  to  the  window. 

In  the  midst  of  a  group  of  servants  and  farm-hands 
stood  an  old  man  in  a  long  green  coat  and  a  shiny,  tall 
hat.  The  court-fool  observed  something  strange  in  his 
master's  appearance.  Suddenly  he  fairly  gasped. 

"The  world  is  coming  to  an  end!"  he  exclaimed. 
"Wonders  will  never  cease, — the  Herr  Baron  has  a 
new  hat !" 


«O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA  I"  317 

CHAPTEE   XXVIII. 

A  SHORT  VISIT. 

LOTTA,  too,  noticed  the  master's  new  hat,  but  that 
was  not  the  only  change  she  observed  in  him.  The 
expression  of  his  face  was  not  so  stern  as  usual. 
Instead  of  sneering  at  the  coxcombical  superintendent, 
he  smiled  at  his  approach ;  his  complexion  was  far  less 
sallow  than  it  had  been ;  and,  above  all,  he  allowed 
the  superintendent  to  pay  the  driver  of  the  post-chaise 
without  an  inquiry  as  to  the  fare. 

After  nodding  right  and  left,  he  asked  Lotta  if  his 
room  were  ready. 

"  Of  course,"  the  housekeeper  replied,  and  at  once 
conducted  him  to  a  spacious  and  exquisitely  clean  and 
neat  apartment,  rather  scantily  furnished  with  spindle- 
legged  chairs  and  brass-mounted  cabinets  dating  from 
the  time  of  the  First  Empire.  Not  a  speck  of  dust 
was  to  be  seen  anywhere.  The  Baron  ordered  coffee, 
and  dismissed  Lotta. 

When  she  had  gone  he  looked  about  him  keenly, 
as  if  in  search  of  somewhat,  from  the  arm-chair  into 
which  he  had  thrown  himself.  Not  finding  what  he 
sought,  he  arose  and  went  into  the  adjoining  room. 
Yes,  there  it  was ! 

On  the  wall  hung  two  portraits,  in  broad,  tasteless 
gilt  frames.  One  represented  a  fair,  handsome  woman, 
with  bare  shoulders  and  long,  soft  curls ;  the  other  a 

27* 


318  "0  THO  U,  MY  A  USTRIA  I" 

dark-browed  man,  in  the  red,  gold-embroidered  uniform 
of  a  court  chamberlain.  He  smiled  bitterly  as  he 
looked  at  this  picture.  "Done  with!"  he  muttered, 
and  turned  his  back  upon  the  portraits;  with  those 
words  he  banished  the  memory  of  his  past.  A  strange 
sensation  possessed  him :  an  anticipation  of  his  future, 
— the  future  of  a  man  of  seventy-three  I  He  walked 
about  the  room  uncertainly,  searching  for  something. 
A  dark  flush  mounted  to  his  cheek;  he  loosened  his 
collar.  At  last  he  turned  the  key  in  the  door,  as  if 
fearful  of  being  surprised  in  some  misdeed,  and  then 
went  to  his  writing-table,  a  large  and  rather  com- 
plicated piece  of  furniture,  its  numerous  drawers 
decorated  with  brass  ornaments.  From  one  of  the 
most  secret  of  these  he  took  a  small  portfolio  contain- 
ing about  a  dozen  photographs.  All  represented  the 
same  person,  but  at  various  stages  of  existence,  from 
earliest  infancy  to  boyhood  and  manhood. 

"  Fritz !"  murmured  the  old  man,  hoarsely ;  "  Fritz  1" 

Yes,  always  Fritz.  The  father  looked  them  through, 
lingering  over  each  one  with  the  same  longing,  hungry 
look  with  which  we  would  fain  call  to  life  the  images 
of  our  dead.  There  was  Fritz  with  his  first  gun,  Fritz 
in  his  school-uniform,  and,  at  last,  Fritz  as  a  young 
diplomat,  photographed  in  Paris,  with  a  mountain 
view  in  the  background. 

This  picture  trembled  in  the  old  hands.  How  he 
had  admired  it !  how  proud  he  had  been  of  his  hand- 
some son !  and  then 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door.  Buried  in  the  past, 
he  had  not  heard  the  bustle  of  preparation  in  the  next 


«  O  THO U,  MY  A  USTRIA  I"  319 

room,  and  now  he  thrust  away  the  pictures  to  take  his 
seat  at  his  well-furnished  table,  where  Lotta  was  wait- 
ing to  serve  him. 

"  Sit  down,  sit  down,"  the  Baron  said,  with  unwonted 
geniality,  "  and  tell  me  of  what  is  going  on  here." 

Lotta  seated  herself  bolt  upright  at  a  respectful  dis- 
tance from  her  master. 

"  Well?"  began  the  Baron,  pouring  out  the  coffee  for 
himself. 

"  I  wrote  all  the  news  to  the  Herr  Baron ;  nothing  else 
has  happened,  except  that  the  English  sow  which  the 
Herr  Baron  bought  at  the  fair  littered  last  night, — 
twelve  as  nice  fat  little  pigs  as  ever  were  seen." 

"  Indeed  1  very  interesting.  But  what  was  in  the 
letter  ?  Since  I  never  received  it,  it  must  be  lying  at 
Franzburg." 

"Oh,  all  sorts  of  things, — about  the  short-horn 
calves,  and  the  weight  of  the  hay,  and  Baron  Harry's 
betrothal ;  but  of  course  the  Herr  Baron  knew  of 
that." 

The  Baron  set  down  his  cup  so  hastily  that  it  came 
near  being  broken.  "  Not  a  word !"  he  exclaimed,  doing 
his  best  to  conceal  the  delight  which  would  mirror 
itself  in  his  face.  Harry  betrothed?  To  whom  but 
to  the  golden-haired  enchantress  he  had  met  in  the 
forest, — Fritz's  daughter  Zdena?  To  be  sure,  he  had 
threatened  to  disinherit  the  boy  if  he  married  her,  but 
the  fellow  had  been  quite  right  to  set  the  threat  at 
naught.  The  old  man  chuckled  at  the  fright  he  would 

give  them,  and  then Meanwhile,  he  tried  to  look 

indifferent. 


320  "O  THOU,  Mf  AUSTRIA  I" 

"  Indeed  ?  And  so  the  boy  is  betrothed  ?"  he  drawled. 
"  All  very  fine — without  asking  any  one's  advice,  hey? 
Of  course  your  old  heart  is  dancing  at  the  thought  of 
it,  Lotta.  Oh,  I  know  you  through  and  through." 

"  I  don't  see  any  reason  for  rejoicing  at  the  young 
master's  betrothal,"  Lotta  replied,  crossly,  thrusting 
out  her  chin  defiantly. 

The  old  man  scanned  her  keenly.  Something  in  the 
expression  of  her  face  troubled  him. 

"  Who  is  the  girl  ?"  he  asked,  bluntly. 

"  The  younger  of  the  two  Harfink  frauleins ;  the 
other  married  Count  Treurenberg." 

"Harfink,  do  you  say?  Impossible!"  The  Baron 
could  not  believe  his  ears. 

"  So  I  thought  too,  but  I  was  mistaken.  It  is  offi- 
cially announced.  Baron  Karl  has  been  to  see  the 
mother,  and  there  is  shortly  to  be  a  betrothal  festival, 
to  which  all  the  great  people  in  the  country  round  are 
to  be  invited." 

"  But  what  is  the  stupid  boy  thinking  about  ?  What 
do  people  say  of  him  ?"  thundered  the  Baron. 

"  Why,  what  should  they  say  ?  They  say  our  young 
Baron  had  interested  motives,  that  he  is  in  debt " 

The  Baron  started  up  in  a  fury.  "  In  debt  ?  A  fine 
reason  I"  he  shouted.  "  Am  I  not  here  ?" 

Whereupon  Lotta  looked  at  him  very  significantly. 
"As  if  every  one  did  not  know  what  those  get  who 
come  to  the  Herr  Baron  for  money,"  she  murmured. 

The  old  man's  face  flushed  purple.  "Leave  the 
room !"  he  cried,  pointing  to  the  door. 

Lotta  arose,  pushed  back  her  chair  to  the  wall,  and 


«O  THOU,  MF  AUSTRIA!"  321 

walked  out  of  the  room  with  much  dignity.  She  was 
accustomed  to  such  conduct  on  her  master's  part :  it 
had  to  be  borne  with.  And  she  knew,  besides,  that 
her  words  had  produced  an  impression,  that  he  would 
not  be  angry  with  her  long. 

"When  the  door  had  closed  after  her,  the  old  man 
seated  himself  at  his  writing-table,  determined  to 
write  to  Harry,  putting  his  veto  upon  the  marriage 
of  his  nephew  with  the  "  Harfink  girl  j"  but  after  the 
first  few  lines  he  dropped  the  pen. 

"  What  affair  is  it  of  mine  ?"  he  murmured.  "  If  he 
had  yielded  to  a  foolish  impulse  like  my  Fritz," — he 
passed  his  hand  over  his  eyes, — "  why,  then  I  might 
have  seen  things  differently,  and  not  as  I  did  twenty 
years  ago.  But  if,  with  love  for  another  girl  in  his 
heart,  he  chooses  to  sell  himself  for  money,  he  simply 
does  not  exist  for  me.  Let  him  take  the  consequences. 
My  money  was  not  enough  for  him,  or  perhaps  he  was 
afraid  he  should  have  to  wait  too  long  for  it.  Well, 
now  ho  can  learn  what  it  is  to  be  married  without  a 
penny  to  a  rich  girl  whom  he  does  not  love." 

He  pulled  the  bell  furiously.  The  young  game- 
keeper who  always  filled  the  position  of  valet  to  the 
Baron  upon  these  spasmodic  visits  to  Yorhabshen  en- 
tered. 

"  Harness  the  drag,  Martin,  so  that  I  can  catch  the 
train." 

That  very  evening  he  returned  to  Franzburg,  where 
ho  sent  for  his  lawyer  to  help  him  make  a  new  will. 


322  "0  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!" 

CHAPTEE   XXIX. 

SUBMISSION. 

YES,  affairs  had  reached  a  terribly  grave  point,  an 
Harry  now  fully  appreciated.  He  felt  like  a  man 
under  sentence  of  death  whose  appeal  for  mercy  has 
been  rejected.  The  day  for  his  execution  was  ap- 
pointed ;  he  had  given  his  promise,  and  must  keep  it. 

The  day  after  his  father's  visit  to  Dobrotschau  the 
young  man  presented  himself  there,  and  informed  the 
ladies  that  pressing  business  obliged  him  to  return  to 
Vienna ;  but  Paula,  who  was  perfectly  aware  of  the 
duration  of  his  leave,  routed  from  the  field  every 
reason  which  he  gave  for  the  necessity  for  his  pres- 
ence in  Vienna.  A  betrothal  festival  had  been  ar- 
ranged for  a  day  early  in  September;  he  could  not 
possibly  be  absent.  And  Paula,  the  robust,  whose 
nerves  were  of  iron,  wept  and  made  a  scene;  and 
Harry  stayed,  and  conscientiously  paid  at  least  three 
visits  a  week  at  Dobrotschau.  He  was  changed  al- 
most past  recognition :  he  had  grown  very  thin,  his 
voice  had  a  hard,  metallic  sound,  and  his  eyes  had 
the  restless  brilliancy  of  some  wild  creature  in  a  trap. 
He  ate  scarcely  anything,  and  his  hands  burned  with 
fever.  His  betrothed,  whose  passion  was  still  on  the 
increase,  overwhelmed  him  with  tender  attentions, 
which  ho  no  longer  strove  to  discourage,  but  which  ho 
accepted  with  the  resignation  of  despair. 


"0  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  323 

His  bridges  were  burned  behind  him ;  he  saw  no 
escape  j  he  must  accept  what  life  had  in  store  for  him. 
Now  and  then  he  made  a  pathetic  attempt  to  blot  out 
of  his  soul  the  pale  image  of  the  charming  girl  which 
never  left  him.  He  even  made  every  effort  to  love  his 
betrothed,  to  penetrate  her  inward  consciousness,  to 
learn  to  know  and  value  her;  but  he  brought  home 
from  every  such  psychological  exploring  trip  a  positive 
aversion,  so  rude  and  coarse,  so  bereft  of  all  delicacy, 
were  her  modes  of  thought  and  feeling.  He  pleased 
her;  his  quixotic  courtesy,  his  unpractical  view  of  life, 
she  took  delight  in;  but  her  vanity  alone  was  in- 
terested, not  her  heart, — that  is,  she  valued  it  all  as 
"gentlemanly  accomplishment,"  as  something  aristo- 
cratic, like  his  seat  on  horseback,  or  the  chiselling  of 
his  profile.  She  was  an  utter  stranger  to  the  best  and 
truest  part  of  him.  And  as  her  passion  increased, 
what  had  been  with  him  at  first  an  impatient  aversion 
changed  to  absolute  loathing, — something  so  terrible 
that  at  times  he  took  up  his  revolver  to  put  an  end  to 
it  all.  Such  cowardice,  however,  was  foreign  to  his 
principles;  and  then  he  was  only  twenty-four  years 

old,  and  life  might  have  been  so  fair  if Even  now 

at  rare  intervals  a  faint  hope  would  arise  within  him, 
but  what  gave  birth  to  it  he  could  not  tell. 

Meanwhile,  the  days  passed,  and  the  betrothal  fete 
was  near  at  hand.  Fainacky,  who  had  installed  himself 
as  maitre  de  plaisir,  an  office  which  no  one  seemed  in- 
clined to  dispute  with  him,  was  indefatigable  in  his 
labours,  and  displayed  great  inventive  faculty.  Every 
hour  ho  developed  some  fresh  idea :  now  it  was  a  new 


324  "  O  THO  U,  MY  A  USTRIA  I" 

garden  path  to  be  illuminated  by  coloured  lamps,  now 
a  clump  of  shubbery  behind  which  the  band  of  an  in- 
fantry regiment  in  garrison  in  the  neighbourhood  was 
to  be  concealed. 

"  Music  is  the  most  poetic  of  all  the  arts,  so  long  as 
one  is  spared  the  sight  of  the  musician,"  he  explained 
to  Frau  von  Harfink,  in  view  of  this  last  arrangement. 
"  The  first  condition  of  success  for  a  fete  is  a  concealed 
orchestra." 

He  himself  composed  two  stirring  pieces  of  music — 
a  Paula  galop  and  a  Selina  quadrille — to  enrich  the  en- 
tertainment. The  decoration  of  the  garden-room  was 
carried  out  by  a  Viennese  upholsterer  under  his  special 
supervision.  He  filled  up  the  cards  of  invitation,  or- 
dered the  wine  for  the  supper,  and  sketched  the  shapes 
for  the  plaques  of  flowers  on  the  table.  The  menus, 
however,  constituted  his  masterpiece.  Civilized  hu- 
manity had  never  seen  anything  like  them.  Beside 
each  plate  there  was  to  lie  a  parchment  roll  tied  with 
a  golden  cord,  from,  which  depended  a  seal  stamped 
with  the  Harfink  cpat  of  arms.  These  gorgeous 
things  were  Fainacky's  chef-d'oeuvre.  All  his  other  de- 
vices— such  as  the  torcji  dance  at  midnight,  with  con- 
gratulatory addresses  from  the  Harfink  retainers,  the 
fireworks  which  were  to  reveal  the  intertwined  initials 
of  the  betrothed  pair  shooting  to  the  skies  in  charac- 
ters of  flame — were  mere  by-play.  Yet,  in  spite  of 
all  his  exertions  in  this  line,  the  Pole  found  time  to 
spy  upon  everybody,  to  draw  his  own  conclusions,  and 
to  attend  to  his  own  interests. 

By  chance  it  occurred  to  him  to  devote  some  obser 


«O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA  I"  325 

ration  to  Olga  Dangeri,  whom  hitherto  he  had  scarcely 
noticed.  He  found  her  a  subject  well  worth  further 
attention,  and  it  soon  became  a  habit  of  his  to  pursue 
her  with  his  bold  glance,  of  course  when  unobserved 
by  the  fair  Countess  Selina,  with  whom  he  continued 
to  carry  on  his  flirtation.  Whenever,  unseen  and 
unheard,  he  could  persecute  Olga  with  his  insolent 
admiration  and  exaggerated  compliments,  he  did  so. 
Consequently  she  did  her  best  to  avoid  him.  He  was 
quite  satisfied  with  this  result,  ascribing  it  to  the  agita- 
tion caused  by  his  homage.  " Poor  girl!"  he  thought; 
"  she  does  not  comprehend  the  awakening  within  her 
of  the  tender  passion  I" 

In  fact,  a  change  was  perceptible  in  Olga.  She  was 
languid,  not  easily  roused  to  exertion;  her  lips  and 
cheeks  burned  frequently,  and  she  was  more  taciturn 
than  ever.  Her  beauty  was  invested  with  an  even 
greater  charm.  Upon  his  first  arrival  in  Dobrotschau, 
the  Pole  had  suspected  a  mutual  inclination  between 
Treurenberg  and  the  beautiful  "player's  daughter," 
but,  since  he  had  seen  nothing  to  confirm  his  ugly  sus- 
picion, he  had  ceased  to  entertain  it.  Every  symptom 
of  an  awakening  attachment  which  he  could  observe 
in  Olga,  Ladislas  Fainacky  interpreted  in  his  own 
favour. 


326  "0  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA  I" 

CHAPTEE   XXX. 

PERSECUTION. 

SEPTEMBER  has  fairly  begun.  The  harvest  is  gathered 
in,  and  the  wind  is  blowing  over  the  stubble, — a  dry, 
oppressive  wind,  calling  up  clouds  which  float  across 
the  sky  in  fantastic  masses  every  morning  and  vanish 
at  noon  without  a  trace.  All  nature  manifests  languor 
and  thirst;  the  dry  ground  shows  large  cracks  here 
and  there,  and  vegetation  is  losing  its  last  tinge  of 
green. 

Nowhere  in  all  the  country  around  are  the  effects 
of  the  drought  more  apparent  than  at  Dobrotschau, 
where  the  soil  is  very  poor.  Not  even  in  the  park  is 
there  any  freshness  of  verdure.  The  fountains  refuse 
to  play ;  the  sward  looks  like  a  shabby,  worn  carpet ; 
the  leaves  are  withering  on  the  trees. 

Everything  is  longing  for  a  storm,  and  yet  all  feel 
that  relief,  when  it  comes,  will  bring  uproar  with  it ; 
something  must  go  to  ruin  and  be  shattered  in  the 
change.  The  great  life  of  nature,  spellbound  and 
withheld  in  this  sultry  languor,  will  awake  with  some 
convulsion,  angrily  demanding  a  victim.  It  is  inevita- 
ble; and  one  must  take  comfort  in  the  thought  that 
all  else  will  flourish,  refreshed  and  strengthened.  Any- 
thing would  be  preferable  to  this  wasting  and  wither- 
ing, this  perpetual  hissing  wind. 

To-day  it  seems  finally  lulled  to  rest,  for  the  barom- 


"  O  THOU,  MY  A  USTRIA  I"  327 

eter  is  falling,  and  livid  blue  clouds  are  piling  up  on 
the  horizon,  as  distinct  in  outline  as  a  range  of  moun- 
tains, and  so  darkly  menacing  that  in  old  times  men 
would  have  regarded  them  with  terror.  Now  every 
one  says,  "  At  last !  at  last  1" 

But  they  mount  no  higher ;  the  air  is  more  sultry, 
and  not  a  cooling  drop  falls. 

In  the  shadiest  part  of  the  park  there  is  a  pond, 
bordered  with  rushes  and  surrounded  by  a  scanty 
growth  of  underbrush,  in  the  midst  of  which  stand 
the  black,  skeleton  trunks  of  several  dead  trees.  Dur- 
ing the  winters  preceding  the  coming  to  Dobrotschau 
of  the  Baroness  Harfink,  and  shortly  after  the  pur- 
chase of  the  estate,  some  of  the  most  ancient  of  the 
trees — trees  as  old  as  the  family  whose  downfall  ne- 
cessitated the  sale  of  Dobrotschau — had  died.  Their 
lifeless  trunks  still  pointed  to  the  skies,  tall  and  grim, 
as  if  in  mute  protest  against  the  new  ownership  of 
the  soil. 

The  pond,  once  a  shining  expanse  of  clear  water,  is 
almost  dried  up,  and  a  net-work  of  water-plants  covers 
its  surface.  Now,  when  the  rosebuds  are  falling  from 
their  stems  without  opening,  this  marshy  spot  is  gay 
with  many-coloured  blossoms. 

At  the  edge  of  the  pond  lies  an  old  boat,  and  in  it 
Olga  is  sitting,  dressed  in  white,  with  a  red  rose  in 
her  belt,  one  of  the  few  roses  which  the  drought  has 
spared.  She  is  gazing  dreamily,  with  half-shut  eyes, 
upon  the  shallow  water  which  here  and  there  mirrors 
the  skies.  An  open  book  lies  in  her  lap,  Turgenieff's 
u  A  First  Love,"  but  she  has  read  only  a  few  pages  of 


328  "0  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA  I" 

it.  Her  attitude  expresses  languor,  and  from  time  to 
time  she  shivers  slightly. 

"  Why  is  Lato  so  changed  to  me?  why  does  he  avoid 
me  ?  what  have  I  done  to  displease  him  ?"  These  are 
the  thoughts  that  occupy  her  mind  as  she  sits  there, 
with  her  hands  clasped  in  her  lap,  gazing  down  into 
the  brown  swamp,  not  observing  that  Fainacky,  at- 
tracted by  the  light  colour  of  her  dress  among  the 
trees,  has  followed  her  to  the  pond  and  has  been 
watching  her  for  some  time  from  a  short  distance. 

"She  loves,"  he  says  to  himself,  as  he  notices  the 
dreamy  expression  of  the  girl's  face ;  and  his  vanity 
adds,  "  She  loves  me  I" 

He  tries,  by  gazing  fixedly  at  her,  to  force  her  to 
look  up  at  him,  but  he  is  unsuccessful,  and  then  has 
recourse  to  another  expedient.  In  his  thin,  reedy 
tenor  voice  he  begins  to  warble  "  Salve  dimora  casta 
e  pura"  from  Gounod's  "  Faust." 

Then  she  looks  round  at  him,  but  her  face  certainly 
does  not  express  pleasure.  She  arises,  leaves  the  skiff, 
and,  passing  her  obtrusive  admirer  without  a  word, 
tries  to  turn  into  the  shortest  path  leading  to  the 
castle.  He  walks  beside  her,  however,  and  begins  in 
a  low  voice :  "  Fraulein  Olga,  I  have  something  to  say 
to  you." 

"Tome?" 

"Yes,  I  want  to  explain  myself,  to  correct  some 
false  impressions  of  yours,  to  lay  bare  my  heart  before 
you." 

He  pauses  after  uttering  this  sentence,  and  she  also 
stands  still,  her  annoyance  causing  a  choking  sensation 


"0  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  329 

in  her  throat.  She  would  fain  let  him  know  that  she 
is  not  in  the  least  interested  in  having  his  heart  laid 
bare  before  her,  but  how  can  she  do  this  without  seem- 
ing cross  or  angry  ? 

"  You  have  hitherto  entirely  misunderstood  me,"  he 
assures  her.  "Oh,  Olga,  why  can  you  not  lay  aside 
your  distrust  of  me  ?" 

"Distrust?"  she  repeats,  almost  mechanically;  "I 
am  not  aware  of  any  distrust." 

"Do  not  deny  it,"  he  persists,  clasping  his  hands 
affectedly ;  "  do  not  deny  it.  Your  distrust  of  me  is 
profound.  It  wounds  me,  it  pains  me,  and — it  pains 
you  also !" 

Olga  can  hardly  believe  her  ears.  She  stares  at  him 
without  speaking,  in  utter  dismay,  almost  fearing  that 
he  has  suddenly  lost  his  wits. 

"You  must  hear  me,"  he  continues,  with  theatric 
effect.  "  Your  distrust  must  cease,  the  distrust  which 
has  hitherto  prevented  you  from  perceiving  how  genuine 
is  the  admiration  I  feel  for  you.  Oh,  you  must  see  how 
I  admire  you !" 

Here  Olga  loses  patience,  and,  with  extreme  hauteur, 
replies,  "  I  have  perceived  your  very  disagreeable  habit 
of  staring  at  me,  and  of  persecuting  me  with  what  I 
suppose  you  mean  for  compliments  when  you  think  no 
one  is  observing  you." 

"  It  was  out  of  regard  for  you." 

"  Excuse  my  inability  to  understand  you,"  she  rejoins, 
still  more  haughtily.  "  I  cannot  appreciate  regard  of 
that  description."  And  with  head  proudly  erect  she 
passes  him  and  walks  towards  the  castle. 

28* 


330  "  O  THO  U,  MY  A  USTRIA  I" 

For  a  moment  ho  gazes  after  her,  as  if  spellbound. 
How  beautiful  she  is,  framed  in  by  the  dark  trees  that 
arch  above  the  pathway!  "She  loves!  she  suffers!" 
he  murmurs.  His  fancy  suddenly  takes  fire;  this  is 
no  fleeting  inclination,  no! — he  adores  her! 

With  a  bound  he  overtakes  her.  "  Olga !  you  must 
not  leave  mo  thus,  adorable  girl  that  you  are !  I  love 
you,  Olga,  love  you  devotedly  I"  He  fulls  at  her  feet. 
"  Take  all  that  I  have,  my  name,  my  life,  my  station, — 
a  crown  should  be  yours,  were  it  mine !" 

She  is  now  thoroughly  startled  and  dismayed.  "  Im- 
possible !  I  cannot  I"  she  murmurs,  and  tries  to  leave 
him. 

But  with  all  the  obstinacy  of  a  vain  fool  he  detains 
her.  "  Oh,  do  not  force  those  beauteous  lips  to  utter 
cruel  words  that  belie  your  true  self.  I  have  watched 
you, — you  love !  Olga,  my  star,  my  queen,  tell  me  you 
love  me !" 

He  seizes  the  girl's  hands,  and  covers  them  with 
kisses ;  but  with  disgust  in  every  feature  she  snatches 
them  from  him,  just  as  Lato  appears  in  the  pathway. 

Fainacky  rises;  the  eyes  of  the  two  men  meet. 
Treurenberg's  express  angry  contempt;  in  those  of 
the  Pole  there  is  intense  hatred,  as,  biting  his  lip  in 
his  disappointment,  he  turns  and  walks  away. 


«O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA  I"  331 

CHAPTEE    XXXI. 

CONSOLATION. 

"WHAT  is  the  matter?  "What  is  it?"  Treurenberg 
«sks,  solicitously. 

"  Nothing,  nothing,"  Olga  replies ;  "  nothing  at  which 
I  ought  to  take  offence."  Then,  after  a  short  pause, 
ehe  adds,  "  On  the  contrary,  he  did  me  the  honour 
to  offer  to  make  me  Countess  Fainacky.  The  idea,  it 
is  true,  seemed  to  occur  to  him  rather  tardilj*,  after 
conducting  himself  impertinently." 

Lato  twirls  his  moustache  nervously,  and  murmurs, 
in  a  dull,  constrained  voice,  "  Well,  and  could  you  not 
bring  yourself  to  consent  ?" 

"  Lato  1"  the  girl  exclaims,  indignantly. 

The  bitter  expression  on  Lato's  face  makes  him  look 
quite  unlike  himself  as  he  says,  "  A  girl  who  sets  out 
to  marry  must  not  be  too  nice,  you  see  1" 

His  head  is  turned  away  from  her;  silence  reigns 
around ;  the  sultry  quiet  lies  like  a  spell  upon  every- 
thing. 

He  hears  a  half-suppressed  ejaculation,  the  rustle  of 
a  robe,  short,  quick  steps,  and,  looking  round,  sees  her 
tall  figure  walking  rapidly  away  from  him,  offended 
pride  and  wounded  feeling  expressed  in  its  every  mo- 
tion. He  ought  to  let  her  go,  but  he  cannot,  and  he 
hurries  after  her ;  almost  before  she  is  aware  of  his 
presence,  he  lightly  touches  her  on  the  arm. 


332  "O  7770 U,  MF  AUSTRIA!" 

"  Olga,  my  poor  Olga,  I  did  not  mean  this  I"  ho  ex- 
claims, gently.  "  Be  reasonable,  my  child ;  I  did  not 
mean  to  wound  you,  but  to  give  you  a  common-sense 
view  of  the  affair." 

She  looks  away  from  him,  and  suddenly  bursts  into 
irrepressible  sobs. 

"You  poor  child!  Hush,  I  pray  you!  I  cannot 
bear  this!  Have  I  really  grieved  you — I — why,  'tis 
ridiculous — I,  who  would  have  my  hand  cut  off  to 
serve  you?  Come,  be  calm."  And  he  draws  her  down 
upon  a  rustic  bench  and  takes  a  seat  beside  her. 

Her  chest  heaves  as  does  that  of  a  child  who,  although 
the  cause  of  its  grief  has  been  removed,  cannot  stop 
crying  at  once.  He  takes  her  hand  in  his  and  strokes 
it  gently. 

A  delightful  sensation  of  content,  even  of  happiness, 
steals  upon  him,  but  mingling  with  it  comes  a  tor- 
menting unrest,  the  dawning  consciousness  that  he  is 
entering  upon  a  crooked  path,  that  he  is  in  danger  of 
doing  a  wrong,  and  yet  he  goes  on  holding  the  girl's 
hand  in  his  and  gazing  into  her  eyes. 

"  Why  are  you  not  always  kind  to  me  ?"  she  asks 
him.  simply. 

He  is  confused,  and  drops  her  hand. 

"  For  a  whole  week  past  you  have  seemed  scarcely 
to  see  me,"  she  says,  reproachfully.  "  Have  you  been 
vexed  with  me?  Did  I  do  anything  to  displease 
you?" 

"  I  have  had  so  much  to  worry  me,"  he  murmurs. 

11  Poor  Lato !  I  thought  so.  If  you  only  knew  how 
my  heart  aches  for  you !  Can  you  not  tell  me  some 


«  O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA  I" 

of  your  troubles  ?  They  are  so  much  easier  to  bear 
when  shared  with  another." 

And  before  he  can  reply  she  takes  his  hand  in  both 
of  here,  and  presses  it  against  her  cheek. 

Just  at  that  moment  he  sees  the  Pole,  who  has 
paused  in  departing  and  turned  towards  the  pair ;  the 
man's  sallow  face,  seen  in  the  distance  above  Olga's 
dark  head,  seems  to  wear  a  singularly  malevolent  ex- 
pression. 

As  soon,  however,  as  he  becomes  aware  that  Treu- 
renberg  has  perceived  him,  he  vanishes  again. 

Lato's  confusion  increases;  he  rises,  saying,  "And 
now  be  good,  Olga ;  go  homo  and  bathe  your  eyes,  that 
no  one  may  see  that  you  have  been  crying." 

"  Oh,  no  one  will  take  any  notice,  and  there  is  plenty 
of  time  before  dinner.  Take  a  walk  with  me  in  the 
park ;  it  is  not  so  warm  as  it  was." 

"  I  cannot,  my  child ;  I  have  a  letter  to  write." 

"As  you  please;"  and  she  adds,  in  an  undertone, 
"  You  are  changed  towards  me." 

Before  he  can  reply,  she  is  gone. 

The  path  along  which  she  has  disappeared  is  flecked 
with  crimson, — the  petals  of  the  rose  that  she  had 
worn  in  her  girdle. 

Lato  feels  as  if  rudely  awakened  from  unconscious- 
ness. He  walks  unsteadily,  and  covers  his  eyes  with 
his  hand  as  if  dazzled  by  even  the  tempered  light  of 
the  afternoon.  The  terrible  bliss  for  which  he  longs, 
of  which  he  is  afraid,  seems  so  near  that  he  has  but 
to  reach  out  his  hand  and  grasp  it.  Ho  stamps  his 


334  "O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA  I" 

foot  in  horror  of  himself.  What!  a  pure  young  girl! 
his  wife's  relative !  The  very  thought  is  impossible ! 
He  is  tormented  by  the  feverish  fancies  of  overwrought 
nerves.  He  shakes  himself  as  if  to  be  rid  of  a  burden, 
then  turns  and  walks  rapidly  along  a  path  leading  in 
an  opposite  direction  from  where  the  scattered  rose- 
leaves  are  lying  on  the  ground. 

As  he  passes  on  with  eyes  downcast,  he  almost  runs 
against  the  Pole.  The  glances  of  the  two  men  meet ; 
involuntarily  Lato  averts  his  from  Fainacky's  face,  and 
as  ho  does  so  he  is  conscious  of  a  slight  embarrass- 
ment, which  the  other  takes  a  malicious  delight  in 
noticing. 

"Aha!"  he  begins;  "your  long  interview  with  the 
fair  Olga  seems  to  have  had  a  loss  agreeable  effect  upon 
your  mood  than  I  had  anticipated." 

Such  a  remark  would  usually  have  called  forth  from 
Lato  a  sharp  rejoinder;  to-day  he  would  fain  choose 
his  words,  to  excuse  himself,  as  it  were. 

"  She  was  much  agitated,"  he  murmurs.  "  I  had 
pome  trouble  in  soothing  her.  She — she  is  nervous  and 
sensitive ;  her  position  in  my  mother-in-law's  household 
is  not  a  very  pleasant  one." 

"Well,  you  certainly  do  your  best  to  improve  it," 
Fainacky  says,  hypocritically. 

"And  you  to  make  it  impossible!"  Lato  exclaims, 
angrily. 

"  Did  the  fair  Olga  complain  of  me,  then  ?"  drawls 
the  other. 

"  There  was  no  need  that  she  should,"  Treurenborg 
goes  on  to  say.  "  Do  you  suppose  that  I  need  anything 


«O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  335 

more  than  eyes  in  my  head  to  see  how  you  follow  her 
about  and  stare  at  her  ?" 

Fainacky  gives  him  a  lowering  look,  and  then  laughs 
softly. 

"  Well,  yes,  I  confess,  I  have  paid  her  some  atten- 
tion ;  she  pleases  me.  Yes,  yes,  I  do  not  deny  my 
sensibility  to  female  charms.  I  never  played  the 
saint!" 

"  Indeed !  At  least  you  seem  to  have  made  an  effort 
to-day  to  justify  your  importunity,"  Treurenberg  re- 
joins, filled  with  contempt  for  the  simpering  specimen 
of  humanity  before  him.  "  You  have  offered  her  your 
hand." 

Scarcely  have  the  words  left  his  lips  when  Treuren- 
berg is  conscious  that  he  has  committed  a  folly  in  thus 
irritating  the  man. 

Fainacky  turns  pale  to  the  lips,  and  his  expression  ia 
one  of  intense  malice. 

"  It  is  true,"  he  says,  "  that  I  so  far  forgot  myself 
for  a  moment  as  to  offer  your  youthful  protegee  my 
hand.  Good  heavens!  I  am  not  the  first  man  of 
rank  who,  in  a  moment  of  enthusiasm  and  to  soothe 
the  irritated  nerves  of  a  shy  beauty,  has  offered  to 
marry  a  girl  of  low  extraction.  The  obstacle,  however, 
which  bars  my  way  to  her  heart  appears  to  be  of  so 
serious  a  nature  that  I  shall  make  no  attempt  to  re- 
move it." 

Ho  utters  the  words  with  a  provoking  smile  and 
most  malicious  emphasis. 

"To  what  obstacle  do  you  refer?"  Lato  exclaims, 
in  increasing  anger. 


336  "O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA  1" 

"  Can  you  seriously  ask  mo  that  question  ?"  the  Pole 
murmurs,  in  a  low  voice  like  the  hiss  of  a  serpent. 

Transported  with  anger,  Treurenberg  lifts  his  hand ; 
the  Pole  scans  him  quietly. 

"  If  you  wish  for  a  duel,  there  is  no  need  to  resort 
to  so  drastic  a  measure  to  provoke  it.  But  do  you 
seriously  think  it  would  be  well  for  the  fair  fame  of 
your — your  lovely  protegee  that  you  should  fight  for 
her?"  And,  turning  on  his  heel,  Fainacky  walks  to- 
wards the  castle. 

Lato  stands  as  if  rooted  to  the  spot,  his  gaze  riveted 
on  the  ground. 


CHAPTEK    XXXII. 

INTERRUPTED   HARMONT. 

DINNER  is  over,  and  the  gilt  chandelier  in  the  garden- 
room,  where  coffee  is  usually  served,  is  lighted.  Selina 
is  sitting  at  the  piano  accompanying  Fainacky,  who 
is  singing.  Paula  is  in  her  own  rooms  with  her 
mother,  inspecting  the  latest  additions  to  her  trous- 
seau, just  arrived  from  Vienna.  Lato  has  remained 
in  the  garden-room,  where  he  endures  with  heroic 
courage  the  sound  of  Fainacky's  voice  as  he  whines 
forth  his  sentimental  French  songs,  accentuating  them 
in  the  most  touching  places  with  dramatic  gestures 
and  much  maltreatment  of  his  pocket-handkerchief. 
After  each  song  he  compliments  Selina  upon  her 


"0  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  337 

playing.  Her  touch  reminds  him  of  Madame  Essipoff. 
Solina,  whose  digestion  is  perfect  so  far  as  flattery  is 
concerned,  swallows  all  his  compliments  and  looks  at 
him  as  if  she  wished  for  more. 

On  the  wide  gravel  path,  before  the  glass  doors  of 
the  room,  Olga  is  pacing  to  and  fro.  The  broad  light 
from  door  and  window  reveals  clearly  the  upper  portion 
of  her  figure.  Her  head  is  slightly  bent,  her  hands  are 
clasped  easily  before  her.  There  is  a  peculiar  gliding 
grace  in  all  her  movements.  "With  all  Treurenberg's 
efforts  to  become  interested  in  the  newspaper  which  he 
holds,  he  cannot  grasp  the  meaning  of  a  single  sen- 
tence. The  letters  nicker  before  his  eyes  like  a  crowd 
of  crawling  insects.  "Weary  of  such  fruitless  exertion, 
he  lifts  his  eyes,  to  encounter  Olga's  gazing  at  him 
with  a  look  of  tenderest  sympathy.  He  starts,  and 
makes  a  fresh  effort  to  absorb  himself  in  the  paper, 
but  before  he  is  aware  of  it  she  has  come  in  from  the 
garden  and  has  taken  her  seat  on  a  low  chair  beside 
him. 

"  Is  anything  the  matter  with  you  ?"  she  asks. 

"What  could  be  the  matter  with  me?"  he  rejoins, 
evasively. 

"I  thought  you  might  have  a  headache,  you  look 
so  pale,"  she  says,  with  a  matronly  air. 

"  Olga,  I  would  seriously  advise  you  to  devote  your- 
self to  the  study  of  medicine,  you  are  so  quick  to 
observe  symptoms  of  illness  in  those  about  you." 

She  returns  his  sarcasm  with  a  playful  little  tap 
upon  his  arm. 

Fainacky  turns  and  looks  at  them,  a  fiendish  light 
p       w  29 


338  "O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!" 

in  his  green  eyes,  in  the  midst  of  his  most  effective 
rendering  of  Massenet's  "  Nuits  d'Espagne" 

"  If  you  want  to  talk,  I  think  you  might  go  out  in 
the  garden,  instead  of  disturbing  us  here,"  Selina  calls 
out,  sharply. 

Lato  instantly  turns  to  his  newspaper,  and  when  he 
looks  up  from  it  again,  Olga  has  vanished.  He  rises 
and  goes  to  the  open  door.  The  sultry  magic  of  tho 
September  night  broods  over  the  garden  outside.  Tho 
moon  is  not  yet  visible, — it  rises  late, — but  countless 
stars  twinkle  in  the  blue-black  heavens,  shedding  a  palo 
silvery  lustre  upon  the  dark  earth.  Olga  is  nowhere 
to  be  seen  j  but  there He  takes  a  step  or  two  for- 
ward ;  she  is  walking  quickly.  He  pauses,  looks  after 
her  until  she  disappears  entirely  among  the  shrubbery, 
and  then  he  goes  back  to  the  garden-room. 

It  is  Selina's  turn  to  sing  now,  and  she  has  chosen 
a  grand  aria  from  "  Lucrezia  Borgia."  She  is  a  pupil 
of  Frau  Marchesi's,  and  she  has  a  fine  voice, — that  is 
to  say,  a  voice  of  unusual  compass  and  power,  which 
might  perhaps  have  made  a  reputation  on  the  stage, 
but  which  is  far  from  agreeable  in  a  drawing  room.  It 
is  like  the  blowing  of  trumpets  in  the  same  space. 

His  wife's  singing  is  the  one  thing  in  the  world 
which  Lato  absolutely  cannot  tolerate,  and  never  has 
tolerated.  Passing  directly  through  the  room,  he  dis- 
appears through  a  door  opposite  the  one  leading  into 
the  garden. 

Even  in  the  earliest  years  of  their  married  life 
Selina  always  took  amiss  her  husband's  insensibility 
to  her  musical  performances,  and  now,  when  she  avers 


"0  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA  I"  339 

his  indifference  to  her  in  every  other  respect  to  be  a 
great  convenience,  her  sensitiveness  as  an  artist  is 
unchanged. 

Breaking  off  in  the  midst  of  her  song,  she  calls  after 
him,  "  Is  that  a  protest  ?" 

He  does  not  hear  her. 

"  Continuez  done,  ma  cousine,  I  implore  you,"  the 
Pole  murmurs. 

With  redoubled  energy,  accompanying  herself, 
Countess  Selina  sings  on,  only  dropping  her  hands 
from  the  keys  when  she  has  executed  a  break-neck 
cadenza  by  way  of  final  flourish.  Fainacky,  mean- 
while, gracefully  leaning  against  the  instrument, 
listens  ecstatically,  with  closed  eyes. 

"  Selina,  you  are  an  angel  1"  he  exclaims,  when  she 
has  finished.  "  Were  I  in  Treurenberg's  place  you 
should  sing  to  me  from  morning  until  night." 

u  My  husband  takes  no  pleasure  in  my  singing ;  at 
the  first  sound  of  my  voice  he  leaves  the  room,  as  you 
have  just  seen.  He  has  no  more  taste  for  music  than 
my  poodle." 

"  Extraordinary !"  the  Pole  says,  indignantly.  And 
then,  after  a  little  pause,  he  adds,  musingly,  "  I  never 
should  have  thought  it.  The  day  I  arrived  here,  you 
remember,  I  came  quite  unexpectedly;  and,  looking 
for  some  one  to  announce  me,  I  strayed  into  this  very 
room "  He  hesitates. 

"  Well  ?— go  on." 

"  Well,  Nina,  or  Olga — what  is  your  protegee's  name?" 
He  snaps  his  fingers  impatiently. 

«  Olga  1     Well,  what  of  her  ?" 


340  "0  TIIOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!" 

"Nothing,  nothing,  only  she  was  sitting  at  the 
piano  strumming  away  at  something,  and  Lato  was 
listening  as  devoutly  as  if  she " 

But  Selina  has  risen  hastily  and  is  walking  towards 
the  door  into  the  garden  with  short  impatient  steps, 
as  if  in  need  of  the  fresh  air.  Her  face  is  flushed, 
and  she  plucks  nervously  at  the  lace  about  her  throat. 

"What  have  I  done?  Have  I  vexed  you?"  the 
Pole  whines,  clasping  his  hands. 

"Oh,  no,  you  have  nothing  to  do  with  it!"  the 
Countess  sharply  rejoins.  "  I  cannot  understand 
Lato's  want  of  taste  in  making  so  much  fuss  about 
that  slip  of  a  girl." 

"  You  ought  to  try  to  marry  her  off,"  sighs  the  Pole. 

"  Try  I  try  I"  the  Countess  replies,  mockingly.  "  There 
is  nothing  to  be  done  with  that  obstinate  thing." 

"  Of  course  it  must  be  difficult ;  her  low  extraction, 
her  lack  of  fortune, " 

"  Lack  of  fortune  ?"  Selina  exclaims. 

"  I  thought  Olga  was  entirely  dependent  upon  your 
mother's  generosity,"  Fainacky  says,  eagerly. 

"  Not  at  all.  My  father  saved  a  very  fair  sum  for 
Olga  from  the  remains  of  her  mother's  property.  She 
has  the  entire  control  of  a  fortune  of  three  or  four 
hundred  thousand  guilders, — quite  enough  to  make 
her  a  desirable  match ;  but  the  girl  seems  to  have 
taken  it  into  her  head  that  no  one  save  a  prince  of 
the  blood  is  good  enough  for  her !"  And  the  Countess 
actually  stamps  her  foot. 

"Do  you  really  imagine  that  it  is  Olga's  ambition 
alone  that  prevents  her  from  contracting  a  sensible 


"0  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA  I"  341 

marriage?"  Fainacky  drawls,  with  evident  signifi- 
cance. 

"  What  else  should  it  be  ?"  Selina  says,  imperiously. 
"  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"Nothing,  nothing;  she  seems  to  me  rather  exag- 
gerated,— overstrained.  Let  us  try  this  duet  of 
Boito's." 

"  I  do  not  wish  to  sing  any  more,"  she  replies,  and 
leaves  the  room. 

He  gazes  after  her,  lost  in  thought  for  a  moment, 
then  snaps  his  fingers. 

"  Four  hundred  thousand  guilders — by  Jove !" 

Whereupon  he  takes  his  seat  at  the  piano,  and  im- 
provises until  far  into  the  night  upon  the  familiar  air, 
"  In  Ostrolenka's  meads." 


CHAPTEE    XXXIII. 

EARLY  SUNRISE. 

IT  is  early  in  the  morning  of  the  day  before  the 
famous  betrothal  festivity.  The  town-clock  of  X 
strikes  three  as  Treurenberg,  his  bridle  hanging  loose, 
is  riding  along  the  lonely  road  towards  Dobrotschau. 
He  has  passed  the  night  with  a  few  officers  at  the 
rooms  of  the  Countess  Wodin,  his  cousin  and  former 
flame,  who  "threw  him  over"  because  her  views  of 
life  were  more  practical  than  his, — that  is  to  say,  than 

29* 


342  "O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!" 

his  were  at  that  period ;  for  he  soon  followed  her 
example,  and  was  very  practical  too.  But  it  does  not 
suit  every  man  to  be  so. 

The  assemblage  at  the  Countess  Wodin's  was  un- 
usually lively.  She  was  the  only  lady  present,  with 
the  exception  of  the  major's  wife,  an  insignificant, 
awkward  woman,  who  was  usually  endowed  with  the 
Countess's  cast-off  gowns.  A  large  number  of  men 
made  up  the  gathering, — almost  the  entire  corps  of 
officers,  and  a  couple  of  gentlemen  from  the  neighbour- 
hood.  The  time  was  whiled  away  with  cards.  At 
first  Lato  did  not  join  the  players,  simply  looking  on 
at  one  and  another  of  the  tables ;  but  by  and  by  he 
took  the  cards  for  his  cousin,  who,  suddenly  possessed 
by  an  intense  desire  to  dance,  rose  from  her  place, 
"just  to  take  a  couple  of  turns  around  the  room." 
She  waltzed  until  she  was  breathless  with  Ensign 
Flammingen,  Treurenberg's  relative,  who  was  appar- 
ently head  over  ears  in  love  with  her.  An  officer  of 
dragoons  meanwhile  droned  out  the  music  for  them 
upon  a  little  drawing-room  hand-organ.  When  the 
Countess  again  took  her  place  at  the  card-table  Lato 
had  won  a  small  fortune  for  her.  She  congratulated 
him  upon  his  luck,  and  advised  him  to  try  it  in  his 
own  behalf.  He  did  so. 

Between  the  games  a  good  deal  of  wine  had  been 
drunk,  and  various  questionable  witticisms  had  been 
perpetrated.  Treurenberg  laughed  louder  than  the 
rest,  although  all  such  jesting  was  distasteful  to  him, 
especially  when  women  were  present.  But  the  Count- 
ess had  expressly  requested  to  be  treated  as  a  man ; 


»  O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA  I"  343 

and  the  major's  wifo,  after  an  unfortunate  attempt  to 
smoke  a  cigarette,  had  retired  to  a  sofa  in  the  ad- 
joining room  to  recover  from  the  effects  of  the  experi- 
ment. 

In  the  absence  of  this  victim  of  an  evil  custom  for 
which  she  was  evidently  unfitted,  the  merriment  grew 
more  and  more  boisterous,  until  suddenly  young  Flam- 
mingen,  who  had  but  a  moment  before  been  waltzing 
gaily  with  the  hostess,  fell  into  a  most  lachrymose  con- 
dition. The  rest  tried,  it  is  true,  to  regard  it  as  only  an 
additional  amusement,  but  it  was  useless:  the  mirth 
had  received  a  death-blow.  Some  one  began  to  turn 
the  hand-organ  again,  but  without  cheering  results. 
All  were  tired.  They  found  the  air  of  the  room  suffo- 
cating ;  the  smoke  was  too  thick  to  see  through. 
Then  the  unfortunate  idea  occurred  to  one  of  the 
party  to  open  a  window.  The  fresh  air  from  without 
wafted  in  among  the  fumes  of  wine  and  cigar-smoke 
had  a  strange  effect  upon  the  guests:  they  suddenly 
fell  silent,  and  in  a  very  short  time  vanished,  like 
ghosts  at  cock-crow. 

Lato  took  his  leave  with  the  rest,  disappearing  from 
his  cousin's  drawing-room  with  the  consciousness  of 
being  a  winner, — that  was  something.  He  rode 
through  the  quiet  town,  and  on  between  the  desolate 
fields  of  rye,  where  not  an  ear  was  left  standing,  be- 
tween dark  stretches  of  freshly-ploughed  land,  whence 
came  the  odour  of  the  earth  with  its  promise  of  re- 
newed fertility.  The  moon  was  high  in  the  colourless 
sky ;  along  the  eastern  horizon  there  was  a  faint  gleam 
of  yellow  light.  The  dawn  enveloped  all  nature  as  in 


344  "0  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!" 

a  whito  semi-transparent  veil;  every  outline  showed 
indistinct ;  the  air  was  cool,  and  mingled  with  it  there 
was  a  sharp  breath  of  autumn.  Here  and  there  a 
dead  leaf  fell  from  the  trees.  The  temperature  had 
grown  much  cooler  in  the  last  few  days ;  there  had 
been  violent  storms  in  the  vicinity,  although  the 
drought  still  reigned  at  Dobrotschau.  Treurenberg 
felt  weary  in  every  limb ;  the  hand  holding  the  bridle 
dropped  on  his  horse's  neck.  On  either  side  stood  a 
row  of  tall  poplars ;  he  had  reached  the  avenue  where 
Olga's  white  figure  had  once  come  to  meet  him.  The 
castle  was  at  hand.  He  shivered ;  a  mysterious  dread 
bade  him  turn  away  from  it. 

The  half-light  seemed  to  roll  away  like  curling  smoke. 
Lato  could  clearly  distinguish  the  landscape.  The 
grass  along  the  roadside  was  yellow  and  dry;  bluo 
succory  bloomed  everywhere  among  it ;  here  and  there 
a  bunch  of  wild  poppies  hung  drooping  on  their  slender 
stalks.  The  blue  flowers  showed  pale  and  sickly  in  the 
early  light ;  the  poppies  looked  almost  black. 

On  a  sudden  everything  underwent  a  change ;  broad 
shadows  stretched  across  the  road,  and  all  between 
them  glowed  in  magic  crimson  light.  From  a  thousand 
twittering  throats  came  greetings  of  the  new-born  day. 

Treurenberg  looked  up.  Solemn  and  grand,  in  a 
semicircle  of  reddish-golden  mist,  the  sun  rose  on  the 
eastern  horizon. 

Yes,  in  a  moment  all  was  transformed, — the  pale 
empty  skies  were  filled  with  light  and  resonant  in- 
spiration, the  earth  was  revivified. 

Why  languish   in    weary  discouragement   when  a 


"O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  345 

single  moment  can  so  transfigure  the  world?  For 
him,  too,  the  sun  might  rise,  all  might  be  bright  within 
him.  Then,  at  a  sharp  turn  of  the  road,  the  castle  of 
Dobrotschau  appeared,  interposing  its  mass  between 
him  and  the  sun.  The  crimson  light,  like  a  corona, 
played  about  the  outlines  of  the  castle,  which  stood 
out  hard  and  dark  against  the  flaming  background. 
Treurenberg's  momentary  hopefulness  faded  at  the 
sight, — it  was  folly  to  indulge  in  it:  for  him  there  was 
no  sunrise ;  there  was  nothing  before  him  but  a  dark, 
blank  wall,  shutting  out  light  and  hope,  and  against 
which  he  could  but  bruise  and  wound  himself  should 
he  try  to  break  through  it. 


CHAPTER   XXXIV. 

STRUGGLES. 

As  Lato  trotted  into  the  court-yard  of  the  castle  a 
window  was  suddenly  closed, — the  window  above  his 
room, — Olga's.  She  had  been  awaiting  his  return, 
then.  He  began  to  shiver  as  in  a  fever-fit. 

"  There  must  be  an  end  to  this,"  he  said  to  himself, 
as  he  consigned  his  horse  to  a  sleepy  groom  and  en- 
tered the  castle. 

His  room  was  on  the  ground-floor ;  when  he  reached 
it  he  threw  himself,  still  dressed,  on  the  bed,  in  a  state 
of  intolerable  agitation  j  by  degrees  he  became  calmer, 


346  "O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!" 

his  thoughts  grew  vague;  without  sleeping  soundly  he 
dreamed.  He  seemed  to  be  swimming  with  Olga  in 
his  arms  through  a  warm,  fragrant  lake,  upon  the 
surface  of  which  pale  water-lilies  were  floating.  Sud- 
denly these  pale  lilies  turned  to  greedy  flames,  the  lake 
glowed  as  with  fire,  and  a  stifling  smoke  filled  the  air. 
Lato  started  up,  his  heart  beating,  his  brow  damp  with 
moisture.  His  fatigue  tempted  him  to  try  again  to 
rest,  but  he  tossed  about  restlessly;  thinking  himself 
still  awake,  he  listened  to  the  ticking  of  his  watch,  and 
looked  at  Lion,  who  lay  crouched  beside  his  bed,  when 
suddenly  Olga  stood  there  gazing  at  him,  her  eyes 
transfigured  with  heavenly  compassion,  as  she  mur- 
mured, "  Will  you  not  share  your  woe  with  me  ?"  She 
stretched  out  her  arms  to  him,  he  drew  her  towards 
him,  his  lips  touched  hers — he  awoke  with  a  cry.  He 
rose,  determined  to  dream  no  more,  and,  drawing  up 
one  of  his  window-shades,  looked  down  into  the  court- 
yard. It  was  barely  six  o'clock.  All  was  quiet,  but 
for  one  of  the  groomsf^t  work  washing  a  carriage. 
The  fountain  before  the  St.  John  rippled  and  mur- 
mured ;  a  few  brown  leaves  floated  in  its  basin.  The 
silvery  reflection  from  the  water  dazzled  Lato's  eyes ; 
he  turned  away,  and  began  slowly  to  pace  the  room. 
The  motion  seemed  to  increase  his  restlessness;  he 
threw  himself  into  an  arm-chair,  and  took  up  a  book. 
But  he  was  not  in  a  condition  to  read  a  line;  before 
he  knew  it  the  volume  fell  from  his  hand,  and  the 
noise  it  made  in  falling  startled  him  again.  He  shook 
his  head  in  impatience  with  his  nervousness;  this  state 
of  affairs  could  not  be  longer  endured,  he  must  bring 


"  0  THO U,  MY  A  USTRIA  I"  347 

about  some  change;  matters  could  not  go  on  thus. 
He  thought  and  thought.  What  could  be  patched  up 
from  the  ruins  of  his  life  ?  He  must  try  to  stand  on  a 
better  footing  with  his  wife,  to  leave  Dobrotschau  as 
soon  as  possible.  What  would  be  his  future  ?  could 
he  ever  become  reconciled  to  his  existence  ?  Oh !  time 
was  such  a  consoler,  could  adjust  so  much,  perhaps  it 
would  help  him  to  live  down  this  misery. 

Then,  like  an  honourable  merchant  who  sees  bank- 
ruptcy imminent,  he  reckoned  up  his  few  possessions. 
His  wife  had  certainly  loved  him  once  passionately. 
It  was  long  since  he  had  recalled  her  former  tender- 
ness ;  he  now  did  so  distinctly.  "  It  is  not  possible," 
he  thought  to  himself,  "that  so  strong  a  feeling  can 
have  utterly  died  out ;"  the  fault  of  their  estrangement 
must  be  his,  but  it  should  all  be  different.  If  he  could 
succeed  in  withdrawing  her  from  the  baleful  influences 
that  surrounded  her,  and  in  awakening  all  that  was 
honest  and  true  in  her,  they  might  help  each  other 
to  support  life  like  good  friends.  It  was  impossible 
to  make  their  home  in  Vienna,  where  his  sensitive 
nature  was  continually  outraged  and  at  war  with  her 
satisfied  vanity.  Under  such  circumstances  irritation 
was  unavoidable.  But  she  had  been  wont  to  talk  of 
buying  a  country-seat,  and  had  been  eloquent  about, 
the  delights  of  a  country  life.  Yes,  somewhere  in  the 
country,  in  a  pretty,  quiet  home,  forgotten  by  the  world, 
they  might  begin  life  anew ;  here  was  the  solution  of 
the  problem ;  this  was  the  right  thing  to  do !  He 
thought  of  his  dead  child ;  perhaps  God  would  bestow 
upon  him  another. 


348  "O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!" 

"What  would,  meanwhile,  become  of  Olga  ?  Like  a 
stab,  the  thought  came  to  him  that  with  her  fate  he 
had  nothing  to  do.  Olga  would  miss  him,  but  in  time, 
— yes,  in  time  she  would  marry  some  good  man.  He 
never  for  an  instant  admitted  the  idea  that  she  could 
share  his  sinful  affection. 

"I  must  let  the  poor  girl  go,"  ho  murmured  to  him- 
self. "  I  cannot  help  her ;  all  must  look  out  for  them- 
selves." He  said  this  over  several  times,  nervously 
clasping  and  unclasping  his  hands, — hands  which,  long, 
narrow,  and  white,  suggested  a  certain  graceful  help 
lessness  which  is  apt  to  distinguish  the  particularly 
beautiful  hands  of  a  woman.  "  Yes,  one  must  learn 
to  control  circumstances,  to  conquer  one's  self." 


CHAPTEK    XXXV. 

A   SLANDERER. 

THE  others  are  seated  at  the  breakfast-table  when 
Preurenberg  enters  the  dining-room,  all  except  Fai- 
nacky,  who,  true  to  his  self-imposed  task,  is  still  busy 
with  the  decorations  of  the  garden-room.  That  enter- 
prising maltre  de  plaisir  has  a  deal  to  do,  since  there  is 
to  be  a  rehearsal,  as  it  were,  in  the  evening  of  the 
morrow's  festivities.  Various  guests  from  far  and 
near  are  expected  to  admire  and  to  enhance  this 
prelude  of  coming  glories. 


«O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA  I"  349 

A  seat  beside  Selina  is  empty.  Lato  goes  directly 
towards  it.  Nothing  about  him  betrays  his  inward 
agitation  or  the  sleeplessness  of  the  past  night.  Rather 
pale,  but  refreshed  by  a  long  walk,  and  dressed  with 
exquisite  care,  he  looks  so  distinguished  and  handsome 
in  his  light  summer  array,  that  Selina  is  struck  by  his 
appearance.  He  has  a  rose  in  his  hand,  and  as,  bend- 
ing over  his  wife,  he  places  it  among  her  curls,  and 
then  kisses  her  hand  by  way  of  morning  greeting, 
she  receives  him  quite  graciously.  She  is  inclined  to 
be  proud  to-day  of  her  aristocratic  possession,  which 
she  is  shortly  to  have  an  opportunity  of  displaying 
before  so  many  less-favoured  friends.  Half  returning 
the  pressure  of  his  hand,  she  says,  "  To  what  do  I  owe 
these  conjugal  attentions  ?" 

"  The  anniversary  of  our  betrothal,  Selina,"  he  says, 
in  the  half-jesting  tone  in  which  married  people  of  a 
certain  social  standing  are  wont  to  allude  before  wit- 
nesses to  matters  of  sentiment,  and  then  he  takes  his 
seat  beside  her. 

"  True,  our  anniversary  1"  she  rejoins,  in  the  same 
tone,  evidently  flattered.  "  And  you  remembered  it  ? 
As  a  reward,  Lato,  I  will  butter  your  toast  for  you." 

Here  the  Pole  comes  tripping  into  the  room. 
"  Changement  de  decoration.  You  have  taken  my  place 
to-day,  Treurenberg,"  he  says,  not  without  irritation. 
"Since  when  have  modern  couples  been  in  the  habit 
of  sitting  beside  each  other?" 

"It  is  permitted  now  and  then  en  famille"  Selina 
informs  him,  placing  before  Lato  the  toast  she  has 
just  prepared  for  him.  She  glances  at  Fainacky,  and 

80 


350  "O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!" 

instantly  averts  her  eyes.  For  the  first  time  it  occurs 
to  her  to  compare  this  affected  triflcr  with  her  hus- 
band, and  the  comparison  is  sadly  to  Fainacky's  dis 
advantage.  The  petty  elegancies  of  his  dress  and  air 
strike  her  as  ridiculous.  He  divines  something  of  this, 
and  it  enrages  him.  He  cares  not  the  slightest  for 
Selina,  but,  since  their  late  encounter  in  the  park,  he 
has  most  cordially  hated  Lato,  whom  he  did  not  like 
before.  The  friendly  demeanour  of  the  pair  towards 
each  other  this  morning  vexes  him  intensely ;  ho  sees 
that  his  attempt  to  cast  suspicion  upon  Lato  has 
failed  with  Selina;  nay,  it  has  apparently  only  fanned 
the  flame  of  a  desire  to  attract  her  husband.  It  irri- 
tates him ;  he  would  be  devoured  by  envy  should  a 
complete  reconciliation  between  the  two  be  estab- 
lished, and  he  be  obliged  to  look  on  while  Lato  again 
entered  into  the  full  enjoyment  of  his  wife's  millions. 
He  takes  the  only  vacant  place,  and  looks  about  him 
for  somewhat  wherewith  to  interrupt  this  mood  upon 
the  part  of  the  pair.  Finally  his  glance  reste  upon 
Olga,  who  sits  opposite  him,  crumbling  a  piece  of 
biscuit  on  her  plate. 

"No  appetite  yet,  Fraulein  Olga?"  he  asks. 

Olga  starts  slightly,  and  lifts  her  teacup  to  her  lips. 

"Do  you  not  think  that  Fraulein  Olga  has  been 
looking  ill  lately  ?"  The  Pole  directs  this  question  to 
all  present. 

Every  one  looks  at  Olga,  and  Fainacky  gloats  over 
the  girl's  confusion. 

Treurenberg  looks  also,  and  is  startled  by  her  pallor. 
"Yes,  my  poor  child,  you  certainly  are  below  par," 


"O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  351 

he  says,  with  difficulty  controlling  his  voice.  "  Some- 
thing must  be  done  for  your  health." 

"  Change  of  air  is  best  in  such  cases,"  observes  the 
Pole. 

"So  I  think,"  says  Treurenberg;  and,  finding  that 
he  has  himself  better  in  hand  than  he  had  thought 
possible  awhile  ago,  he  adds,  turning  to  his  mother- 
in-law,  "  I  think,  when  everything  here  is  settled  after 
the  old  fashion " 

"After  the  new  fashion,  you  mean,"  Paula  inter- 
poses, with  a  languishing  air. 

"Yes,  when  all  the  bustle  is  over,"  Treurenberg 
begins  afresh,  in  some  embarrassment  this  time,  for 
his  conscience  pricks  him  sorely  whenever  Paula  al- 
ludes to  her  betrothal. 

"  I  understand,  after  my  marriage,"  she  again  inter- 
poses. 

"  About  the  beginning  of  November,"  Trourenborg 
meekly  rejoins,  again  addressing  his  mother-in-law, 
"you  might  take  Olga  to  the  south.  A  winter  in 
Nice  would  benefit  both  of  you." 

"  Tiens !  c'est  une  idee,"  Selina  remarks.  "  Such  quan- 
tities of  people  whom  we  know  are  going  to  winter  in 
Nice  this  year.  Not  a  bad  plan,  Lato.  Yes,  we  might 
spend  a  couple  of  months  very  pleasantly  in  Nice." 

"  Oh,  I  have  other  plans  for  ourselves,  Lina,"  Treu- 
renberg says,  hastily. 

"  Ah,  I  begin  to  understand,"  Frau  von  Harfink  ob- 
serves :  "  we  are  to  be  got  out  of  the  way,  Olga,  you 
and  I."  And  she  smiles  after  a  bitter-sweet  fashion. 

"But,  Baroness!"  Lato  exclaims. 


352  "0  77/0 U,  MF  AUSTRIA!" 

"You  entirely  misunderstand  him,  Baroness,"  Fai- 
nacky  interposes :  "  he  was  only  anxious  for  Fraulein 
Olga's  health  ;  and  with  reason :  her  want  of  appetite 
is  alarming."  Again  he  succeeds  in  attracting  every 
one's  attention  to  the  girl,  who  is  vainly  endeavouring 
to  swallow  her  breakfast. 

"  I  cannot  imagine  what  ails  you,"  Paula  exclaims, 
in  all  the  pride  of  her  position  as  a  betrothed  maiden. 
"  If  I  knew  of  any  object  for  your  preference,  I  should 
say  you  were  in  love." 

"  Such  suppositions  are  not  permitted  to  the  mascu- 
line intelligence,"  the  Pole  observes,  twirling  his  mous- 
tache and  smiling  significantly,  his  long,  pointed  nose 
drooping  most  disagreeably  over  his  upper  lip. 

Olga  trembles  from  head  to  foot ;  for  his  life  Lato 
cannot  help  trying  to  relieve  the  poor  child's  embar- 
rassment. 

"Nonsense!"  he  exclaims;  "she  is  only  a  little  ex- 
hausted by  the  heat,  and  rather  nervous,  that  is  all ! 
But  you  must  really  try  to  eat  something;"  and  he 
hands  her  a  plate.  Her  hand  trembles  so  as  she  takes 
it  that  she  nearly  lets  it  fall. 

Frau  von  Harfink  frowns,  but  says  nothing,  for  at 
the  moment  a  servant  enters  with  a  letter  for  Treurcn- 
berg.  The  man  who  brought  it  is  waiting  for  an  an- 
swer. Lato  hastily  opens  the  missive,  which  is  ad- 
dressed in  a  sprawling,  boyish  hand,  and,  upon  reading 
it,  changes  colour  and  hastily  leaves  the  room. 

"From  whom  can  it  be?"  Selina  soliloquizes,  aloud. 

"  H'm  1"  the  Pole  drums  lightly  with  his  fingers  on 
the  table,  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  knows  more  than 


"O  THOU,  MF  AUSTRIA  I"  353 

he  chooses  to  tell.  A  little  while  afterwards  he  is  left 
alone  with  Selina  in  the  dining-room. 

"  Have  you  any  idea  of  whom  the  letter  was  from  ?" 
the  Countess  asks  him. 

"Not  the  least,"  he  replies,  buttoning  his  morning 
coat  to  the  throat,  an  action  which  always  in  his  case 
betokens  the  possession  of  some  important  secret. 

"Will  you  be  kind  enough  to  inform  me  of  what 
you  are  thinking?"  Selina  says,  imperiously,  and  not 
without  a  certain  sharpness  of  tone. 

"  You  are  aware,  Countess,  that  ordinarily  your  wish 
is  law  for  me,"  the  Pole  replies,  with  'dignity,  "  but  in 
this  case  it  is  unfortunately  impossible  for  me  to  com- 
ply with  your  request." 

"Why?" 

"  Because  you  might  be  offended  by  my  communica- 
tion, and  it  would  be  terrible  for  me  were  I  to  displeaiso 
you." 

"  Tell  me !"  the  Countess  commands. 

"  If  it  must  be,  then "  He  shrugs  his  shoulders 

as  if  to  disclaim  any  responsibility  in  the  matter,  and, 
stroking  his  moustache  affectedly,  continues:  "I  am 
convinced  that  the  letter  in  question  has  to  do  with — 
Treurenberg's  pecuniary  embarrassments, — voild  /" 

"  Pecuniary  embarrassments!"  exclaims  the  Countess, 
with  irritation.  "  How  should  my  husband  have  any 
such?" 

She  is  vexed  with  the  Pole,  whose  affectations  begin 

to  weary  her,  and  she  is  strangely  inclined  to  defend 

her  husband.     Her  old  tenderness  for  him  seems  to 

stir  afresh  within  her.    Fainacky  perceives  that  his 

*  30* 


354  "O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!" 

game  to-day  will  not  be  easily  won ;  nevertheless  he 
persists. 

"  Then  you  are  ignorant  of  the  debts  he  contracts  ?" 

"  If  you  have  nothing  more  probable  to  tell  me,  you 
need  trouble  yourself  no  further,"  the  Countess  angrily 
declares. 

"  Pardon  me,  Countess,"  the  Pole  rejoins,  "  I  should 
not  have  told  you  anything  of  the  kind  were  I  not 
sure  of  my  facts.  Treurenberg  has  accidentally  had 
resort  to  the  same  usurer  that  transacts  my  little 
affairs.  For,  I  make  no  secret  of  it,  I  have  debts, 
a  necessary  evil  for  a  single  man  of  rank.  Good 

heavens  I  we  gentlemen  nowadays "  he  waves  his 

hand  grandiloquently.  "  Yet,  I  assure  you,  my  friend- 
ship with  Abraham  Goldstein  is  a  luxury  which  I 
would  gladly  deny  myself.  I  pay  four  per " 

"  I  take  not  the  slightest  interest  in  the  percentage 
you  pay,"  interposes  Selina,  "  but  I  cannot  understand 
how  you  venture  to  repeat  to  me  a  piece  of  gossip  so 
manifestly  false." 

Her  manner  irritates  him  extremely,  principally  be- 
cause it  shows  him  that  ho  stands  by  no  means  so  high 
in  her  favour  as  he  had  supposed.  The  fair  friendship, 
founded  upon  flattery,  or  at  least  upon  mutual  consid- 
eration for  personal  vanity,  is  in  danger  of  a  breach. 
Fainacky  is  consumed  by  a  desire  to  irritate  still  fur- 
ther this  insulting  woman,  and  to  do  Treurenberg  an 
injury. 

"Indeed! — a  manifestly  false  piece  of  gossip?"  he 
drawls,  contemptuously. 

"Yes,  nothing  else,"  she  declares;  "apart  from  the 


"0  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA  I"  355 

fact  that  my  husband  has  personal  control  of  a  con- 
siderable income, — my  father  made  sure  of  that  before 
he  gave  his  consent  to  my  marriage ;  he  never  would 
have  welcomed  as  a  son-in-law  an  aristocrat  without 
independent  means, — apart  from  this  fact,  of  course 
my  money  is  at  his  disposal." 

"  Indeed  1  really  ?  I  thought  you  kept  separate 
purses!"  says  the  Pole,  now — thanks  to  his  irritation 
— giving  free  rein  to  his  impertinence. 

Selina  bites  her  lips  and  is  silent. 

Meanwhile,  Fainacky  continues :  "  I  can  only  say 
that  my  information  as  to  Treurenberg's  financial  con- 
dition comes  from  the  most  trustworthy  source, — from 
Abraham  himself.  That  indiscreet  confidant  informed 
me  one  day  that  the  husband  of  '  the  rich  Harfink' — 
that  was  his  expression — owed  him  money.  The  cir- 
cumstance seemed  to  gratify  his  sense  of  humour.  He 
has  a  fine  sense  of  humour,  the  old  rascal !" 

"  I  cannot  understand — it  is  impossible.  Lato  can- 
not have  so  far  forgotten  himself!"  exclaims  the 
Countess,  pale  and  breathless  from  agitation.  "  More- 
over, his  personal  requirements  are  of  the  fewest.  He 
is  no  spendthrift." 

"No,"  says  the  Pole,  with  an  ugly  smile,  "he  is  no 
spendthrift,  but  he  is  a  gambler!  You  may  perhaps 
bo  aware  of  this,  Countess,  ignorant  as  you  seem  to 
be  of  your  husband's  private  affairs  ?" 

"  A  gambler !"  she  breaks  forth.  "  You  are  fond  of 
big  words,  apparently." 

"And  you,  apparently,  have  a  truly  feminine  an- 
tipathy to  the  truth.  Is  it  possible  that  you  are  not 


356  "O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!" 

aware  that  even  as  a  young  man  Treurenberg  was  a 
notorious  gambler  ?" 

"  Since  his  marriage  he  has  given  up  play." 

"Indeed?  And  what  carries  him  to  X day 

after  day?  How  does  he  pass  his  mornings  there? 
At  cards !"  Selina  tries  to  speak,  but  words  fail  her, 
and  the  Pole  continues,  exultantly,  "  Yes,  he  plays,  and 
his  resources  are  exhausted, — and  so  is  Abraham  Gold- 
stein's patience, — so  he  has  taken  to  borrowing  of  his 
friends,  as  I  happen  to  know ;  and  if  I  am  not  vastly 
mistaken,  Countess,  one  of  these  days  ho  will  swallow 
his  hidalgo  pride  and  cry  peccavi  to  you,  turning  to 
you  to  relieve  his  financial  embarrassments;  and  if  I 
were  you  I  would  not  repulse  him, — no,  by  heaven ! 
not  just  now.  You  must  do  all  that  you  can  to  keep 
your  hold  upon  him  just  at  this  time." 

"  And  why  just  at  this  time  ?"  she  asks,  hoarsely. 

"  Why  ?"  He  laughs.  "  Have  you  no  eyes  ?  Were 
my  hints,  my  warnings,  the  other  evening,  not  suffi- 
ciently clear  ?" 

"What  do  you  mean?  What  do  you  presume 
to——"  Selina's  dry  lips  refuse  to  obey  her;  the 
hints  which  had  lately  glanced  aside  from  her  armour 
of  self-confidence  now  go  to  the  very  core, — not  of 
her  heart,  but  of  her  vanity. 

Drawing  a  deep  breath,  she  recovers  her  voice,  and 
goes  on,  angrily :  "  Are  you  insane  enough  to  imagine 
that  Lato  could  be  seriously  attracted  for  one  moment 
by  that  school-girl  ?  The  idea  is  absurd, — I  could  not 
entertain  it  for  an  instant.  I  have  neglected  Lato,  it 
is  true,  but  I  need  only  lift  my  finger " 


"O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  357 

"  I  have  said  nothing,"  the  Pole  whines,  repentantly, 
— "nothing  in  the  world.  For  heaven's  sake  do  not 
be  so  angry !  Nothing  has  occurred,  but  Treurenberg 
has  no  tact,  and  Olga  is  the  daughter  of  a  play-actor, 
and  also,  as  you  must  admit,  and  as  every  one  can 
see,  desperately  in  love  with  Lato.  All  I  do  is  to 
point  out  the  danger  to  you.  Treat  Treurenberg  with 
caution,  and  then " 

"  Hush  1     Go  1"  she  gasps. 

He  rises  and  leaves  the  room,  turning  in  the  door- 
way to  say,  with  a  voice  and  gesture  that  would  have 
won  renown  for  the  hero  of  a  provincial  theatre  at  the 
end  of  his  fourth  act,  "  Selina,  I  have  ruined  myself 
with  you,  I  have  thrown  away  your  friendship,  but  I 
have  perhaps  saved  your  existence  from  shipwreck !" 

Whereupon  he  closes  the  door  and  betakes  himself 
to  the  garden-room  to  have  a  last  look  at  the  decora- 
tions there.  He  does  not  think  it  worth  while  to  carry 
thither  his  heroic  air  of  self-sacrifice ;  on  the  contrary, 
as  he  gives  an  order  to  the  upholsterer,  a  triumphant 
smile  hovers  upon  his  lips.  "It  will  surprise  me  if 
Treurenberg  now  succeeds  in  arranging  his  affairs  in 
that  quarter,"  he  thinks  to  himself. 

Meanwhile,  Selina  is  left  to  herself.  She  does  not 
Buffer  from  wounded  affection ;  no,  her  heart  is  un- 
touched by  what  she  has  just  heard.  But  memory, 
rudely  awakened,  recalls  to  her  a  hundred  little  occur- 
rences all  pointing  in  the  same  direction,  and  she 
trembles  with  rage  at  the  idea  that  any  one — that  her 
own  husband — should  prefer  that  simpleton  of  a  girl 
to  her  own  acknowledged  beauty. 


358  "O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIAN 

CHAPTEE    XXXVI. 

FAILURE. 

THE  clever  Pole  had,  however,  been  quite  mistaken 
as  to  the  contents  of  Lato's  letter.  Abraham  Gold- 
stein's patience  with  the  husband  of  the  "rich  Har- 
fink"  was  not  exhausted, — it  was,  in  fact,  inexhausti- 
ble; and  if,  nevertheless,  the  letter  brought  home  to 
Lato  the  sense  of  his  pecuniaiy  embarrassments,  it 
was  because  a  young,  inexperienced  friend,  whom  he 
would  gladly  have  helped  had  it  been  possible,  had  ap- 
pealed to  him  in  mortal  distress.  His  young  cousin 
Flammingen  was  the  writer  of  the  letter,  in  which 
he  confessed  having  lost  at  play,  and  entreated  Lato 
to  lend  him  three  thousand  guilders.  To  the  poor 
boy  this  sum  appeared  immense ;  it  seemed  but  a  trifle 
to  the  husband  of  the  "  rich  Harfink,"  but  nevertheless 
it  was  a  trifle  which  there  would  be  great  difficulty 
in  procuring.  And  the  lad  wanted  the  money  within 
twenty-four  hours,  to  discharge  gambling-debts, — debts 
of  honour. 

Treurenberg  had  once,  when  a  young  man,  been  in 
a  like  situation,  and  had  been  frightfully  near  vindi- 
cating his  honour  by  a  bullet  through  his  brains.  He 
was  sorry  for  the  young  fellow,  and,  although  his 
misery  was  good  for  him,  he  must  be  relieved.  How  ? 
Lato  turned  his  pockets  inside  out,  and  the  most  he 
could  scrape  together  was  twelve  hundred  guilders. 


"0  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  359 

This  sum  he  enclosed  in  a  short  note,  in  which  he  told 
Flammingen  that  he  hoped  to  send  him  the  rest  in  the 
course  of  the  afternoon,  and  despatched  the  waiting 
messenger  with  this  consolation.  His  cousin's  trouble 
made  him  cease  for  a  while  to  ponder  upon  his  own. 

Although  he  could  not  have  brought  himself  to 
apply  to  his  wife  for  relief  in  his  own  affairs,  it 
seemed  to  him  comparatively  easy  to  appeal  to  her 
for  another.  He  did  not  for  an  instant  doubt  that  she 
would  comply  with  his  request.  She  was  not  parsi- 
monious, but  hard,  and  he  could  endure  that  for 
another's  sake.  He  went  twice  to  her  room,  in  hopes 
of  finding  her  there,  but  she  was  still  in  the  dining- 
room. 

He  frowned  when  her  maid  told  him  this,  and,  light- 
ing a  cigar,  he  went  down  into  Ihe  garden,  annoyed 
at  the  necessity  of  postponing  his  interview  with  his 
wife. 

Meanwhile,  Olga,  out  of  spirits  and  unoccupied,  had 
betaken  herself  to  the  library.  All  day  she  had  felt 
as  if  she  had  lost  something ;  she  could  not  have  told 
what  ailed  her.  She  took  up  a  book  to  amuse  herself; 
by  chance  it  was  the  very  novel  of  Turgenieff's  which 
she  had  been  about  to  read,  seated  in  the  old  boat, 
when  Fainacky  had  intruded  upon  her.  She  had  left 
the  volume  in  the  park,  whence  it  had  been  brought 
back  to  her  by  the  gardener.  She  turned  over  the 
leaves,  at  first  listlessly,  then  a  phrase  caught  her  eye, 
— she  began  to  read.  Her  interest  increased  from 
chapter  to  chapter;  she  devoured  the  words.  Her 
breath  came  quickly,  her  cheeks  burned.  She  read 


360  "O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!" 

on  to  where  the  hero,  in  an  access  of  anger,  strikes 
Zenaide  on  her  white  arm  with  his  riding-whip,  and 
she  calmly  kisses  the  crimson  welt  made  by  the  lash. 

There  the  book  fell  from  the  girl's  hand ;  she  felt  no 
indignation  at  Zenaide's  guilty  passion,  no  horror  of 
the  cruel  rage  of  the  hero ;  no,  she  was  conscious  only 
of  a  kind  of  fierce  envy  of  Zenaide,  who  could  thus 
forgive.  On  the  instant  there  awoke  within  her  a 
passionate  longing  for  a  love  which  could  thus  triumph 
over  all  disgrace,  all  ill  usage,  and  bear  one  exultantly 
to  its  heaven ! 

She  had  become  so  absorbed  in  the  book  as  to  be  in- 
sensible to  what  was  going  on  around  her.  Now  she 
started,  and  shrank  involuntarily.  A  step  advanced 
along  the  corridor ;  she  heard  a  door  open  and  shut, — 
the  door  of  Selina's  dressing-room. 

"  Who  is  there  ?"  Selina's  voice  exclaimed. 

"  I."     It  was  Treurenberg  who  replied. 

Selina's  dressing-room  was  separated  by  only  a  parti- 
tion-wall from  the  library. 

It  was  well-nigh  noon,  and  Selina's  maid  was  dress- 
ing her  mistress's  hair,  when  Treurenberg  entered  his 
wife's  dressing-room  for  the  first  time  for  years  with- 
out knocking.  She  had  done  her  best  to  recover  from 
the  agitation  caused  her  by  Fainacky's  words, — had 
taken  a  bath,  and  had  then  rested  for  half  an  hour. 
Guests  were  expected  in  the  afternoon,  and  she  must 
impress  them  with  her  beauty,  and  must  outshine  the 
pale  girl  whom  Lato  had  the  bad  taste  to  admire. 
"When  Treurenberg  entered  she  was  sitting  before  the 


"O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA  I"  361 

mirror  in  a  long,  white  peignoir,  while  her  maid  was 
brushing  her  hair, — still  long  and  abundant,  reddish- 
golden  in  colour.  Her  arms  gleamed  full  and  white 
from  out  the  wide  sleeves  of  her  peignoir. 

"Who  is  it?"  she  asked,  impatiently,  hearing  some 
one  enter. 

"  Only  I,"  he  replied,  gently. 

Why  does  the  tone  of  his  soft,  melodious  voice  so 
affect  her  to-day  ?  Why,  in  spite  of  herself,  does  Lato 
seem  more  attractive  to  her  than  he  has  done  for 
years?  She  is  irritated  by  the  contradictory  nature 
of  her  feelings. 

"  What  do  you  want  ?"  she  asks,  brusquely. 

"  To  speak  with  you,"  he  replies,  in  French.  "  Send 
away  your  maid." 

Instead  of  complying,  Selina  orders  the  girl,  "  Brush 
harder :  you  make  me  nervous  with  such  half- work." 

Treurenberg  frowns  impatiently,  and  then  quietly 
sends  the  maid  from  the  room  himself.  Selina  makes 
no  attempt  to  detain  her, — under  the  circumstances  it 
would  be  scarcely  possible  for  her  to  do  so, — but  hardly 
has  the  door  closed  behind  Josephine,  when  she  turns 
upon  Lato  with  flashing  eyes. 

"  Why  do  you  send  away  my  servants  against  my 
express  wish  ?" 

"I  told  you  just  now  that  I  want  to  speak  with 
you,"  he  replies,  with  more  firmness  than  he  has  ever 
hitherto  displayed  towards  her, — the  firmness  of  very 
weak  men  in  mortal  peril  or  moral  desperation.  "  What 
I  have  to  say  requires  no  witnesses  and  can  bear  no 
delay." 

Q  81 


362  "  0  THOU,  MY  A  USTRIA  I" 

"  Go  on,  then."  She  folds  her  arms.  "  What  do  you 
want?" 

He  has  seated  himself  astride  of  a  chair  near  her, 
and,  with  his  arms  resting  on  the  low  back  and  his  chin 
in  his  hands,  he  gazes  at  her  earnestly.  Why  do  his 
attitude  and  his  way  of  looking  at  her  remind  her  so 
forcibly  of  the  early  time  of  their  married  life  ?  Then 
he  often  used  to  sit  thus  and  look  on  while  she  ar- 
ranged her  magnificent  hair  herself,  for  then — ah, 

then !  But  she  thrusts  aside  all  such  reflections. 

Why  waste  tenderness  upon  a  man  who  is  not  ashamed 
to — who  has  so  little  taste  as  to 

"  What  do  you  want  ?"  she  asks,  more  crossly  than 
before. 

"  First  of  all,  your  sympathy,"  he  replies,  gravely. 

"  Oh,  indeed !  is  this  what  you  had  to  tell  me  that 
could  bear  no  delay  ?" 

He  moves  his  chair  a  little  nearer  to  her.  "  Lina," 
he  murmurs,  "  we  have  become  very  much  estranged 
of  late." 

"  Whose  fault  is  it  ?"  she  asks,  dryly. 

"  Partly  mine,"  he  sadly  confesses. 

"Only  partly?"  she  replies,  sharply.  "That  is  a 
matter  of  opinion.  The  other  way  of  stating  it  is 
that  you  neglected  me  and  I  put  up  with  it." 

"I  left  you  to  yourself,  because — because  I  thought 
I  wearied  you,"  he  stammers,  conscious  that  he  is  not 
telling  quite  the  truth,  knowing  that  he  had  hailed  the 
first  symptoms  of  her  indifference  as  a  relief. 

"  It  certainly  is  true  that  I  have  not  grieved  myself 
to  death  over  your  neglect.  It  was  not  my  way  to 


«O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  363 

Bue  humbly  for  your  favour.  But  let  that  go ;  let  us 
speak  of  real  things,  of  the  matter  which  will  not 
bear  delay."  She  smiles  contemptuously. 

"  True,"  he  replies ;  "  I  had  forgotten  it  in  my  own 
personal  affairs.  I  wanted  to  ask  a  favour  of  you." 

"  Ah  1"  she  interposes ;  and  he  goes  on :  "  It  happens 
that  I  have  no  read}7  money  just  now ;  what  I  have, 
at  least,  does  not  suffice.  Will  you  advance  me  some  ?" 

She  drums  exultantly  upon  her  dressing-table,  loaded 
with  its  apparatus  of  glass  and  silver.  "  I  would  have 
wagered  that  wo  should  come  to  this.  H'm ! — how 
much  do  you  want  ?" 

"  Eighteen  hundred  guilders." 

"  And  do  you  consider  that  a  trifle  ?"  she  exclaims, 
provokingly.  "  If  I  remember  rightly,  it  amounts  to 
the  entire  year's  pay  of  a  captain  in  the  army.  And 
you  want  the  money  to — discharge  a  gambling-debt, 
do  you  not  ?" 

'•  Not  my  own,"  he  says,  hoarsely.  "  God  knows,  I 
would  rather  put  a  bullet  through  my  brains  than  ask 
you  for  money  1" 

"That's  very  easily  said,"  she  rejoins,  coldly.  "I 
am  glad,  however,  to  have  you  assure  me  that  you  do 
not  want  the  money  for  yourself.  To  pay  your  debts, 
for  the  honour  of  the  name  which  I  bear,  I  should 
have  made  any  sacrifice,  but  I  have  no  idea  of  sup- 
porting the  extravagancies  of  the  garrison  at  X ." 

And  Selina  begins  to  trim  her  nails  with  a  glittering 
little  pair  of  scissors. 

"  But,  Selina,  you  have  no  idea  of  the  facts  of  the 
case!"  Treurenberg  exclaims.  He  has  risen,  and  he 


364  "0  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA  I" 

takes  the  scissors  from  her  and  tosses  them  aside  im- 
patiently. "  Women  can  hardly  understand  the  im- 
portance of  a  gambling-debt.  A  life  hangs  upon  its 
payment, — the  life  of  a  promising  young  fellow,  who, 
if  no  help  is  vouchsafed  him,  must  choose  between 
disgrace  and  death.  Suppose  I  should  tell  you  to- 
morrow that  he  had  shot  himself, — what  then?" 

"He  will  not  shoot  himself,"  she  says,  calmly. 
"  Moreover,  it  was  a  principle  with  my  father  never  to 
comply  with  the  request  of  any  one  who  threatened 
suicide ;  and  I  agree  with  him." 

"  You  are  right  in  general ;  but  this  is  an  exception. 
This  poor  boy  is  not  yet  nineteen, — a  child,  unaccus- 
tomed to  be  left  to  himself,  who  has  lost  his  head. 
What  if  you  are  right,  and  he  cannot  find  the  courage 
to  put  an  end  to  himself, — the  hand  of  a  lad  of 
eighteen  who  has  condemned  himself  to  death  may 
well  falter, — what  then  ?  Disgrace,  for  him,  for  his 
family;  dismissal  from  the  army;  a  degraded  life. 
Have  pity,  Selina,  for  heaven's  sake  I" 

He  pleads  desperately,  but  he  might  as  well  appeal 
to  a  wooden  doll,  for  all  the  impression  his  words  make 
upon  her,  and  at  last  he  pauses,  breathless  with  agi- 
tation. Selina,  tossing  her  head  and  with  a  scornful 
air,  says,  "  I  have  little  sympathy  for  young  good- 
for-naughts ;  it  lies  in  the  nature  of  things  that  they 
should  bear  the  consequences  of  their  actions ;  it  is  no 
affair  of  mine.  I  might,  indeed,  ask  how  it  happens 
that  you  take  such  an  interest  in  this  case,  did  I  not 
know  that  you  have  good  reason  to  do  so, — you  are  a 
gambler  yourself." 


"0  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA  I"  365 

Tieurenberg  starts  and  gazes  at  her  in  dismay.  "  A 
gambler !  What  can  make  you  think  so  ?  I  often  play 
to  distract  my  mind,  but  a  gambler ! — 'tis  a  harsh  word. 
I  am  not  aware  that  you  have  ever  had  to  suffer  from 
my  love  for  cards." 

"  No ;  your  friendship  with  Abraham  Goldstein  stands 
you  in  stead.  You  have  spared  me,  if  it  can  be  called 
sparing  a  woman  to  cause  her  innocently  to  incur  the 
reputation  for  intense  miserliness !" 

There  is  some  truth  in  her  words,  some  justice  in  her 
indignation.  Lato  casts  down  his  eyes.  Suddenly  an 
idea  occurs  to  him.  "  Fainacky  has  told  you,  then,  of 
my  relations  with  Abraham  Goldstein  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"Ah !"  he  exclaims ;  " I  now  understand  the  change 
in  you.  For  heaven's  sake,  do  not  allow  yourself  to 
be  influenced  by  that  shallow,  malicious  coxcomb !" 

"I  do  not  allow  myself  to  be  influenced  by  him," 
the  Countess  replies ;  "  but  his  information  produced  an 
impression  upon  me,  for  it  was,  since  you  do  not  deny 
it,  correct.  You  are  a  gambler ;  you  borrow  money  at 
a  high  rate  of  percentage  from  a  usurer,  because  you 
are  too  arrogant  or  too  obstinate  to  tell  me  of  your 
debts.  Is  this  not  so  ?" 

Treurenberg  has  gone  towards  the  door,  when  he 
suddenly  pauses  and  collects  himself.  He  will  make 
one  more  attempt  to  be  reconciled  with  his  wife,  and 
it  shall  be  the  last.  He  turns  towards  her  again. 

"Yes,"  he  admits, "  I  have  treated  you  inconsiderately, 
and  your  wounding  of  my  pride,  perhaps  uninten- 
tionally, does  not  excuse  me.  I  have  been  wrong, — I 
31* 


366  "0  T.BW,  M7  AUSTRIA!" 

have  neglected  you.  I  play, — yes,  Selina,  I  play, — I 
seek  the  society  of  strangers,  but  only  because  I  am 
far,  far  more  of  a  stranger  at  home.  Selina,"  he  goes 
on,  carried  away  by  his  emotion,  and  in  a  voice  which 
expresses  his  utter  misery,  "  I  cannot  reconcile  myself 
to  life  amid  your  surroundings ;  call  it  want  of  char- 
acter, weakness,  sensitiveness,  as  you  please,  but  I 
cannot.  Come  away  with  me;  let  us  retire  to  any 
secluded  corner  of  the  earth,  and  I  will  make  it  a 
paradise  for  you  by  my  gratitude  and  devotion ;  I  will 
serve  you  on  my  knees ;  my  life  shall  be  yours,  only 
come  away  with  me  I" 

Poor  Lato!  he  has  wrought  his  own  ruin.  Why 
does  he  not  understand  that  every  word  he  speaks 
wounds  the  most  sensitive  part  of  her, — her  vanity  ? 

"You  would  withdraw  me  from  my  surroundings? 
And,  pray,  what  society  do  you  offer  me  in  exchange  ?" 
she  asks,  bitterly.  "  My  acquaintances  are  not  good 
enough  for  you ;  I  am  not  good  enough  for  the  atmos- 
phere in  which  you  used  to  live." 

He  sees  his  error,  perceives  that  he  has  offended  her, 
and  it  pains  him. 

"  Selina,"  he  says,  softly,  "  there  shall  be  no  lack  of 
good  friends  for  you  at  my  side ;  and  then,  after  all, 
what  need  have  we  of  other  people  ?  Can  we  not  find 
our  happiness  in  each  other?  What  if  God  should 
bless  us  with  an  angel  like  the  one  He  has  taken  from 
us?" 

He  kneels  beside  her  and  kisses  her  hand,  but  she 
withdraws  it  hastily. 

"  Do  not  touch  me!"  she  exclaims;  "  I  am  not  Olga!" 


«  O  THO  Ut  MY  A  VSTRIA  I"  367 

He  starts  to  his  feet  as  if  stung  by  a  se»pent. 
"  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  What  I  say." 

"  I  do  not  understand  you !" 

"  Hypocrite  1"  she  gasps,  her  jealousy  gaining  abso- 
lute mastery  of  her ;  "  I  am  not  blind ;  do  you  suppose 
I  do  not  know  upon  whom  you  lavish  kind  words  and 
caresses  every  day,  which  fall  to  my  share  only  when 
you  want  some  favour  of  me  ?" 

It  seems  to  him  that  he  hears  the  rustle  of  feminine 
garments  in  the  next  room.  "  For  God's  sake,  Selina, 
not  so  loud,"  he  whispers. 

"Ah!  your  first  emotion  is  dread  of  injuring  her; 
all  else  is  indifferent  to  you.  It  does  not  even  occur 
to  you  to  repel  my  accusation." 

"  Accusation  ?"  he  murmurs,  hopelessly.  "  I  do  not 
yet  understand  of  what  you  accuse  me." 

"Of  your  relations  with  that  creature  before  my 
very  eyes !" 

Transported  with  indignation  at  these  words,  he  lifts 
his  hand,  possessed  by  a  mad  impulse  to  strike  her,  but 
he  controls  himself  so  far  as  only  to  grasp  her  by  the 
arm. 

"  Creature !"  he  exclaims,  furiously.  "  Creature  I  Are 
you  mad  ?  Olga ! — why,  Olga  is  pure  as  an  angel,  more 
spotless  than  a  snowflake  before  it  has  touched  the 
earth." 

"  I  have  no  faith  in  such  purity.  If  she  has  not  act- 
ually fallen,  her  passion  is  plainly  shown  in  her  eyes. 
But  there  shall  be  no  open  scandal, — she  must  go.  I 
will  not  have  her  in  the  house, — she  must  go  I" 


368  "0  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!" 

"  She  must  go !"  Treurenberg  repeats,  in  horror.  "  You 
would  turn  her  out  of  doors, — a  young,  inexperienced, 
beautiful  girl?  Selina,  I  will  go,  and  the  sooner  the 
better  for  all  I  care,  but  she  must  stay." 

"  How  you  love  her  1"  sneers  the  Countess. 

For  a  moment  there  is  silence  in  the  room.  Lato 
gazes  at  his  wife  as  if  she  were  something  strange 
which  he  had  never  seen  before, — gazes  at  her  in  amaze- 
ment mingled  with  horror.  His  patience  is  at  an  end ; 
he  forgets  everything  in  the  wild  desire  to  break 
asunder  the  fetters  which  have  bound  him  for  so  long, 
to  be  rid  of  the  self-control  which  has  so  tortured  him. 

"  Yes,"  he  says,  raising  his  voice,  "  I  love  her, — love 
her  intensely,  unutterably;  but  this  is  the  first  time 
that  I  have  admitted  it  even  to  myself,  and  you  have 
brought  me  to  do  so.  I  have  struggled  against  this 
passion  night  and  day,  have  denied  its  existence,  have 
done  all  that  I  could  to  stifle  it,  and  I  have  tried  to 
the  utmost  to  be  reconciled  with  you,  to  begin  with 
you  a  new  life  in  which  I  could  hope  to  forget  her. 
How  you  have  seconded  me  you  know.  Of  one  thing, 
however,  I  can  assure  you, — the  last  word  has  been 
uttered  between  you  and  myself;  it  would  not  avail 
you  now  though  you  should  sue  for  a  reconciliation  on 
your  knees.  A  woman  without  tenderness  or  com- 
passion I  abhor.  I  have  a  horror  of  you !"  He  turns 
sway,  and  the  door  closes  behind  him. 

"Where  is  the  Count?"  Frau  von  Harfink  asks  a 

servant,  at  lunch,  where  Treurenberg's  place  is  vacant. 

"  The  Herr  Count  had  his  horse  saddled  some  time 


"0  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA  I"  369 

ago,"  the  man  replies,  "  and  left  word  that  he  should 
not  be  here  at  lunch,  since  he  had  urgent  business  in 
X ." 

"Indeed!"  the  hostess  says,  indifferently,  without 
expending  another  thought  upon  her  son-in-law.  She 
never  suspects  that  within  the  last  few  hours,  beneath 
her  roof,  the  ruin  has  been  completed  of  a  human  ex- 
istence long  since  undermined. 

Lunch  goes  on, — a  hurried  meal,  at  which  it  is  evi- 
dent that  the  household  is  in  a  state  of  preparation  for 
coming  festivities;  a  meal  at  which  cold  dishes  are 
served,  because  the  entire  culinary  force  is  absorbed  in 
elaborating  the  grand  dinner  for  the  evening ;  a  lunch 
at  which  no  one  talks,  because  each  is  too  much  occu- 
pied with  his  or  her  own  thoughts  to  desire  to  inquire 
into  those  of  the  others. 

Frau  von  Harfink  mentally  recapitulates  the  even- 
ing's menu,  wondering  if  nothing  can  be  added  to  it 
to  reflect  splendour  upon  the  Harfink  establishment. 

Paula's  reveries  are  of  her  coming  bliss  ;  her  usually 
robust  appetite  is  scarcely  up  to  the  mark.  In  short, 
the  only  one  who  seems  to  eat  with  the  customary 
relish  is  the  Pole,  who,  very  temperate  in  drinking 
and  smoking,  is  always  ready  for  a  banquet.  He  is 
also  the  only  one  who  notices  the  want  of  appetite  in 
the  rest.  He  does  not  waste  his  interest,  however, 
upon  the  Baroness  or  Paula,  but  devotes  his  attention 
exclusively  to  Selina  and  Olga. 

The  Countess  is  evidently  in  a  very  agitated  state 
of  mind,  and,  strange  to  relate  of  so  self-satisfied  a 
person,  she  is  clearly  discontented  with  herself  and 

y 


370  "O  THOU,  MF  AUSTRIA  1" 

her  surroundings.  "When  her  mother  asks  her  whether 
two  soups  had  better  be  served  at  dinner,  or,  since  it  is 
but  a  small  family  affair,  only  one,  she  replies  that  it 
is  a  matter  of  supreme  indifference  to  her,  and  will 
certainly  be  the  same  to  the  guests,  adding, — 

"The  people  who  are  coming  will  probably  have 
some  appetite ;  mine  was  spoiled  some  days  ago  by  the 
mere  menu,  which  I  have  been  obliged  to  swallow  every 
day  for  the  last  fortnight."  These  are  the  only  words 
spoken  by  her  during  the  entire  meal. 

The  Pole  finds  her  mood  tolerably  comprehensible. 
She  has  had  a  scene  with  Treurenberg,  and  has  gone 
too  far, — that  is  what  is  annoying  her  at  present.  But 
Olga's  mood  puzzles  him  completely.  The  depression 
she  has  manifested  of  late  has  entirely  vanished,  she 
holds  her  head  erect,  her  movements  are  easy,  and 
there  is  a  gleam  in  her  eyes  of  transfiguring  happiness, 
something  like  holy  exultation. 


«  O  THO  U,  Mr  A  USTRIA  1»  37 1 

CHAPTER   XXXVII. 

A  VISIT. 

MEANWHILE,  Treurenberg  is  riding  along  the  road 
toX . 

The  landscape  is  dreary.  Autumn  is  creeping  over 
the  fields,  vainly  seeking  the  summer,  seeking  lux- 
uriant life  to  kill,  or  exquisite  beauty  to  destroy.  In 
vain;  the  same  withering  drought  rests  upon  every- 
thing like  a  curse,  and  in  the  midst  of  the  brown 
monotony  bloom  succory  and  field-poppies. 

Treurenberg  gazes  to  the  right  and  left  without 
really  seeing  anything.  His  eyes  have  a  glassy,  fixed 
look,  and  about  his  moutb  there  is  a  hard  expression, 
almost  wicked,  and  quite  foreign  to  him.  He  is  not 
the  same  man  who  an  hour  ago  sought  his  wife  to  en- 
treat her  to  begin  a  new  life  with  him  ;  not  the  same 
man  who  at  dawn  was  so  restless  in  devising  schemes 
for  a  better  future. 

His  restlessness  has  vanished  with  his  last  gleam 
of  hope ;  sensation  is  benumbed,  the  burning  pain  has 
gone.  Something  has  died  within  him.  He  no  longer 
reflects  upon  his  life, — it  is  ended;  he  has  drawn  a 
black  line  through  it.  All  that  he  is  conscious  of  is 
intense,  paralyzing  weariness,  the  same  that  had  over- 
come him  in  the  early  morning,  only  more  crushing. 
After  the  scene  with  his  wife  he  had  been  assailed  by 
&  terrible  languor,  an  almost  irresistible  desire  to  lie 


372  "0  THO  U,  MY  A  USTRIA  /'» 

down  and  close  his  eyes,  but  he  could  not  yield  to  it, 
he  had  something  to  do.  That  poor  lad  must  be  res- 
cued ;  the  suffering  the  boy  was  enduring  was  whole- 
some, but  he  must  be  saved. 

Fainacky's  assertion  that  Treurenberg  was  in  the 
habit  of  borrowing  from  his  friends  had  been  a  pure 
fabrication ;  he  had  borrowed  money  of  no  one  save  of 
Harry,  with  whom  he  had  been  upon  the  footing  of  a 
brother  from  early  boyhood,  and  of  Abraham  Gold- 
stein, upon  whose  secrecy  he  had  supposed  he  could 
rely.  It  would  have  wounded  him  to  speak  to  any 
stranger  of  the  painful  circumstances  of  his  married 
life.  Now  all  this  was  past ;  Selina  could  thank  her- 
self that  it  was  so.  He  could  not  let  the  boy  go  to 
ruin,  and,  since  Selina  would  not  take  pity  upon  him, 
he  must  turn  to  some  one  else ;  there  was  no  help  for  it. 

For  a  moment  he  thought  of  Harry ;  but  he  re- 
flected that  Harry  could  hardly  have  so  large  a  sum 
of  ready  money  by  him,  and,  as  time  was  an  impor- 
tant item  in  the  affair,  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to 
apply  for  aid  to  Wodin,  the  husband  of  his  cousin  and 
former  flame. 

The  trees  grow  scantier,  their  foliage  rustier,  and 
the  number  of  ragged  children  on  the  highway 
greater.  Now  and  then  some  young  women  are  to 
be  seen  walking  along  the  road,  usually  in  couples, 
rather  oddly  dressed,  evidently  after  the  plates  in  the 
journals  of  fashion,  and  with  an  air  of  affectation. 
Then  come  a  couple  of  low  houses  with  blackened 
roofs  reaching  almost  to  the  ground,  manure-heaps, 


«  O  THO  U,  MY  A  USTRIA  I"  373 

grunting  swine  wallowing  in  slimy  green  pools,  hedges 
where  pieces  of  linen  are  drying,  gnarled  fruit-trees 
smothered  in  dust,  an  inn,  a  carters'  tavern,  with  a  red 
crab  painted  above  the  door-way,  whence  issues  the 
noise  of  drunken  quarrelling,  then  a  white  wall  with 

some  trees  showing  above  it, — the  town-park  of  X . 

Lato  has  reached  his  goal.  On  the  square  before  the 
barracks  he  halts.  A  corporal  takes  charge  of  his 
horse,  and  he  hurries  up  the  broad,  dirty  steps,  along 
the  still  dirtier  and  ill-smelling  corridor,  where  he  en- 
counters dragoons  in  spurs  and  clattering  sabres,  where 
the  officers'  overworked  servants  are  brushing  their  mas- 
ters' coats  and  their  mistresses'  habits,  to  the  colonel's 
quarters,  quarters  the  luxurious  arrangement  of  which 
is  in  striking  contrast  to  the  passages  by  which 
they  are  reached.  Count  Wodin  is  not  at  home,  but 
is  expected  shortly;  the  Countess,  through  a  servant, 
begs  Lato  to  await  him.  He  resolves  to  do  so,  and 
pays  his  respects  meanwhile  to  his  cousin,  whom  he 
finds  in  a  spacious,  rather  low-ceilinged  apartment, 
half  smoking-room,  half  drawing-room,  furnished  with 
divans  covered  with  Oriental  stuff's,  pretty  buhl  chairs 
and  tables,  and  Japanese  cabinets  crowded  to  excess 
with  all  sorts  of  rare  porcelain.  An  upright  piano 
stands  against  the  wall  between  two  windows ;  above 
it  hangs  a  miniature  gondola,  and  beside  it,  on  the 
floor,  is  a  palm  in  a  huge  copper  jar  evidently  pro- 
cured from  some  Venetian  water-carrier.  Two  china 
pugs,  the  size  of  life,  looking  like  degenerate  chimeras, 
gnash  their  teeth  at  all  intruders  in  life-like  hideous- 
ness.  The  door- ways  are  draped  with  Eastern  rugs; 

32 


374  "0  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!" 

the  walls  are  covered  with  a  dark  paper,  and  two  or 
three  English  engravings  representing  hunting-scenes 
hang  upon  them.  In  the  midst  of  these  studies  in 
black  and  white  hangs  a  small  copy  of  Titian's  Venus. 

The  entire  arrangement  of  the  room  betrays  a 
mingling  of  vulgarity  and  refinement,  of  artistic 
taste  and  utter  lack  of  it;  and  in  the  midst  of  it  all 
the  Countess  reclines  on  a  lounge,  dressed  in  a  very 
long  and  very  rumpled  morning-gown,  much  trimmed 
with  yellowish  Valenciennes  lace.  Her  hair  is  knotted 
up  carelessly;  she  looks  out  of  humour,  and  is  busy 
rummaging  among  a  quantity  of  photographs.  She  is 
alone,  but  from  the  adjoining  room  come  the  sound 
of  voices,  as  Treurenberg  enters,  and  the  rattle  of 
bezique-counters. 

The  Countess  gives  him  her  hand,  presses  his  very 
cordially,  and  says,  in  a  weary,  drawling  tone,  "  How 
are  you  after  yesterday,  Lato  ?" 

"After  what?" 

"Why,  our  little  orgie.  It  gave  me  a  headache." 
She  passes  her  hand  across  her  forehead.  "  How  badly 
the  air  tastes!  Could  you  not  open  another  window, 
Lato?" 

"They  are  all  open,"  he  says,  looking  round  the 
room. 

"  Ah  1  You  have  poisoned  the  atmosphere  with  your 
wine,  your  cigars,  your  gambling  excitement.  I  taste 
the  day  after  a  debauch,  in  the  air." 

He  nods  absently. 

"  I  admire  people  who  never  suffer  the  day  after," 
she  sighs,  and  waves  her  hand  towards  the  door  of  the 


»O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!11  375 

next  room,  through  which  comes  a  cheerful  murmur 
of  voices.  Lato  moves  his  head  a  little,  and  can  see 
through  the  same  door  a  curious  couple, — the  major's 
wife,  stout,  red-cheeked,  her  hair  parted  boldly  on  one 
side,  and  dressed  in  an  old  gown,  enlarged  at  every 
seam,  of  the  Countess's,  while  opposite  her  sits  a  young 
man  in  civilian's  clothes,  pale,  coughing  from  time  to 
time,  his  face  long  and  far  from  handsome,  but  aristo- 
cratic in  type,  his  chest  narrow,  and  his  waistcoat 
buttoned  to  the  throat. 

"Your  brother,"  Lato  remarks,  turning  to  the 
Countess. 

"  Yes,"  she  rejoins,  "  my  brother,  and  my  certificate 
of  respectability,  which  is  well,  for  there  is  need  of  it. 
X  propos,  do  you  know  that  in  the  matter  of  feminine 
companionship  I  am  reduced  to  that  stout  Liese?" 
The  Countess  laughs  unpleasantly.  "I  have  tried 
every  day  to  bring  myself  to  the  point  of  returning 
your  wife's  call.  I  do  not  know  why  I  have  not  done 
BO.  But  the  ladies  at  Dobrotschau  are  really  very 
amiable, — uncommonly  amiable, — they  have  invited  me 
to  the  betrothal  fete  in  spite  of  my  incivility.  Apropos, 
Lato,  will  any  one  be  there, — any  one  whom  one 
knows  ?" 

"  I  have  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  list  of  guests," 
he  murmurs,  listening  for  Wodin's  step  outside. 

"  I  should  like  to  know.  It  would  be  unpleasant 
to  meet  any  of  my  acquaintances, — they  treat  me  so 
strangely.  You  know  how  it  is."  Again  she  laughs 
in  the  same  unpleasant  way.  "  But  if  I  could  be  sure 
of  meeting  no  one  I  would  go  to  your  fete,  I  have  a 


376  "O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!" 

new  gown  from  "Worth:  I  should  like  to  display  it 
somewhere ;  dragging  my  trains  through  these  smoky 
rooms  becomes  monotonous  after  a  while.  I  think  I 
will  come." 

The  voices  in  the  next  room  sound  louder,  and  there 
is  a  burst  of  hearty  laughter.  Lato  can  see  the  major's 
wife  slap  her  forehead  in  mock  despair. 

"Easily  entertained,"  the  Countess  says,  crossly. 
"They  are  playing  bezique  for  raisins.  It  makes  a 
change  for  my  brother;  his  physician  has  sent  him  to 
the  country  for  the  benefit  of  the  air  and  a  regular 
mode  of  life.  He  has  come  to  the  right  place,  eh  ?" 
Again  she  laughs ;  her  breath  fails  her ;  she  closes  her 
eyes  and  leans  back,  white  as  a  corpse. 

Lato  shudders  at  the  sight,  he  could  hardly  have 
told  why.  His  youth  rises  up  before  him.  There  was 
a  time  when  he  loved  that  woman  with  enthusiasm, 
with  self-devotion.  That  woman !  He  scans  her  now 
with  a  kind  of  curiosity.  She  is  still  beautiful,  but 
the  wan  face  has  fallen  away,  the  complexion — all 
that  can  be  seen  of  it  beneath  its  coating  of  violet 
powder — is  faded,  the  delicate  nose  is  too  thick  at  the 
tip,  the  nostrils  are  slightly  reddened,  the  small  mouth 
is  constantly  distorted  in  an  affected  smile,  the  arms 
from  which  the  wide  sleeves  of  the  morning-gown 
have  fallen  back  are  thin,  and  the  nails  upon  the  long, 
slender  hands  remind  one  of  claws.  Even  the  white 
gown  looks  faded,  crushed,  as  by  the  constant  nervous 
movement  of  a  restless,  discontented  wearer.  Her 
entire  personality  is  constrained,  feverish. 

Involuntarily  Lato  compares  this  woman  with  Olga. 


«O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  377 

He  sees  with  his  mind's  eye  the  young  girl,  tall  and 
slender  as  a  lily,  her  white  gowns  always  so  pure  and 
fresh,  sees  the  delicately-rounded  oval  of  her  girlish 
face,  her  clear,  large  eyes,  the  innocent  tenderness  of 
her  smile.  And  Selina  could  malign  that  same  Olga ! 
His  blood  boils.  As  if  Olga  were  to  blame  for  the 
wretched,  guilty  passion  in  his  breast  1  His  thoughts 
are  far  away  from  his  present  surroundings. 

"  Seven  thousand  five  hundred,"  the  triumphant  voice 
of  the  major's  wife  calls  out  in  the  next  room.  "  If 
this  goes  on,  Count  Franz,  I  shall  soon  stop  playing 
for  raisins !  Ah !"  as,  turning  her  head,  she  perceives 
Treurenberg ;  "  you  have  a  visitor,  Lori." 

"  Yes,"  Countess  Lori  replies,  "  but  do  not  disturb 
yourselves,  nor  us." 

The  rattle  of  the  counters  continues. 

"I  must  speak  with  your  husband,"  Lato  says 
presently ;  "  if  you  know  where  he  is " 

"  He  will  be  here  in  ten  minutes ;  you  need  have  no 
fear,  he  is  never  late,"  Lori  says.  "  .1  propos,  do  you 
know  what  I  was  doing  when  you  came  in  ?  Sorting 
my  old  photographs."  She  hands  him  a  picture  from 
the  pile  beside  her.  "  That  is  how  I  looked  when  you 
fell  in  love  with  me." 

He  gazes,  not  without  interest,  at  the  pale  little 
picture,  which  represents  a  tall,  slender,  and  yet  well- 
developed  young  girl  with  delicate,  exquisitely  lovely 
features,  and  with  eyes,  full  of  gentle  kindliness,  looking 
out  curiously,  as  it  were,  into  the  world  from  beneath 
their  arched  eyebrows.  An  old  dream  floats  through 
the  wretched  man's  mind. 

32* 


378  "  O  THOU,  MY  A  USTRIA  I" 

"  It  was  very  like,"  he  says. 

""Was  it  not?  I  was  a  comical-looking  thing  then, 
and  how  badly  dressed  1  Look  at  those  big  sleeves  and 
the  odd  skirt.  It  was  a  gown  of  my  elder  sister's  made 
over.  Good  heavens !  that  gown  had  a  part  in  my  re- 
solve to  throw  you  over.  Do  you  remember  ?" 

"  Yes,  Lori." 

"  Only  faintly,  I  think,"  she  laughs.  "  And  yet  you 
seemed  to  take  it  sadly  to  heart  then.  I  was  greatly 
agitated  myself.  But  what  else  was  to  be  done?  I 
was  tired  of  wearing  my  sister's  old  gowns.  Youth 
longs  for  splendour ;  it  is  one  of  its  diseases,  and  when 
it  has  it — pshaw!  you  need  not  look  so,  Lato:  I 
have  no  intention  of  throwing  myself  at  your  head. 
I  know  that  old  tale  is  told  for  both  of  us.  And  wo 
never  were  suited  for  each  other.  It  was  well  that  I 
did  not  marry  you,  but,  good  heavens,  I  might  have 
waited  for  some  one  else !  It  need  not  have  been  just 

that  one — that "  with  a  hasty  gesture  of  disgust 

she  tosses  aside  a  photograph  of  Count  Wodin  which 
she  has  just  drawn  from  the  heap.  "  What  would  you. 
have  ?  If  a  tolerably  presentable  man  appears,  and 
one  knows  that  he  can  buy  one  as  many  gowns,  dia- 
monds, and  horses  as  one  wants,  why,  one  forgets 
everything  else  and  accepts  him.  What  ideas  of  mar 
riage  one  has  at  seventeen!  And  our  parents  take 
good  care  not  to  enlighten  us.  '  She  will  get  used  to 
it,'  say  father  and  mother,  and  the  mother  believes 
it  because  she  wants  to,  and  both  rejoice  that  their 
daughter  is  provided  for;  and  before  one  is  aware  the 
trap  has  fallen.  I  bore  you,  Lato." 


«O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA  I"  379 

"  No,"  ho  replies ;  "  you  grieve  me." 

"  Oh,  it  is  only  now  and  then  that  I  feel  thus,"  she 
murmurs.  "  Shall  I  tell  you  the  cause  of  my  wretched 
mood  ?" 

"  Utter  fatigue,  the  natural  consequence  of  yester- 
day's pleasures." 

"Not  at  all.  I  accidentally  came  upon  the  picture 
of  my  cousin  Ada  to-day.  Do  you  remember  her? 
There  she  is."  She  hands  him  a  photograph.  "  Ex- 
quisitely beautiful,  is  it  not  ?" 

"Yes,"  he  says,  looking  at  the  picture;  "the  eyes 
are  bewitching,  and  there  is  such  womanly  tenderness, 
such  delicate  refinement,  about  the  mouth." 

"  Nothing  could  surpass  Ada,"  says  Countess  Lori ; 
"  she  was  a  saint,  good,  self-sacrificing,  not  a  trace  in 
her  of  frivolity  or  selfishness." 

"  And  yet  she  married  Hugo  Reinsfeld,  if  I  am  not 
mistaken  ?"  says  Lato.  "  I  have  heard  nothing  of  her 
lately.  News  from  your  world  rarely  reaches  me." 

"  No  one  mentions  her  now,"  Lori  murmurs.  "  She 
married  without  love;  not  from  vanity  as  I  did,  but  she 
sacrificed  herself  for  her  family, — sisters  unprovided  for, 
father  old,  no  money.  She  was  far  better  than  I,  and 

for  a  long  time  she  honestly  tried  to  do  her  duty, 

and  so  she  finally  had  to  leave  her  husband !" 

The  Countess  stops ;  a  long  pause  ensues.  The  steps 
of  the  passers-by  sound  through  the  languid  September 
air;  an  Italian  hurdy-gurdy  is  grinding  out  the  lullaby 
from  "  Trovatore,"  sleepy  and  sentimental.  The  clatter 
from  the  barracks  interrupts  it  now  and  then.  A  sun- 
beam slips  through  the  window-shade  into  the  half- 


380  "O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA  1" 

light  of  the  room  and  gleams  upon  the  buhl  furni- 
ture. 

""Well,  she  had  the  courage  of  her  opinions,"  the 
Countess  begins  afresh  at  last.  "  She  left  her  husband 
and  lives  with — well,  with  another  man, — good  heavens ! 
you  knew  him  too, — Niki  Gladnjik, — in  Switzerland  ; 
they  live  there  for  each  other  in  perfect  seclusion.  He 
adores  her;  the  world — our  world,  the  one  I  do  not 
want  to  meet  at  your  ball — ignores  Ada,  but  I  write 
to  her  sometimes,  and  she  to  me.  I  have  been  reading 
over  her  letters  to-day.  She  seems  to  be  very  happy, 
enthusiastically  happy,  so  happy  that  I  envy  her;  but 
I  am  sorry  for  her,  for — you  see,  Niki  really  loves 
her,  and  wants  to  marry  her — they  have  been  waiting 
two  years  for  the  divorce  which  her  husband  opposes ; 
and  Niki  is  consumptive ;  you  understand,  if  he  should 
die  before " 

Lato's  heart  throbs  fast  at  his  cousin's  tale.  At  this 
moment  the  door  opens,  and  Count  Wodin  enters. 


"0  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA  1"  381 

CHAPTEE    XXXVIII. 

AT  LAST. 

FLAMMINGEN'S  affairs  are  satisfactorily  adjusted. 
Treurenberg  is  relieved  of  that  anxiety.  He  can  de- 
vote his  thoughts  to  his  own  complications,  as  he  rides 
back  from  X to  Dobrotschau. 

The  dreamy  lullab}7  from  "  Trovatore"  still  thrills  his 
nerves,  and  again  and  again  he  recalls  the  pair  living 
happily  in  Switzerland.  He  sees  their  valley  in  his 
mental  vision  enclosed  amid  lofty  mountains, — walls 
erected  by  God  Himself  to  protect  that  green  Paradise 
from  the  intrusion  and  cruelty  of  mankind, — walls 
which  shut  out  the  world  and  reveal  only  the  blue 
heavens.  How  happy  one  could  be  in  that  green  se- 
clusion, forgotten  by  the  world !  In  fancy  he  breathes 
the  fresh  Alpine  air  laden  with  the  wholesome  scent 
of  the  pines ;  upon  his  ear  there  falls  the  rushing 
murmur  of  the  mountain-stream.  He  sees  a  charming 
home  on  a  mountain-slope,  and  at  the  door  stands  a 
lovely  woman  dressed  in  white,  with  large,  tender  eyes 
filled  with  divine  sympathy.  She  is  waiting  for  some 
one's  return ;  whence  does  he  come  ?  From  the  nearest 
town,  whither  he  is  forced  to  go  from  time  to  time  to 
adjust  his  affairs,  but  whither  she  never  goes ;  oh,  no  1 
People  pain  her, — people  who  despise  and  envy  her. 
But  what  matters  it  ?  He  opens  his  arms  to  her,  she 
flies  to  meet  him ;  ah,  what  bliss,  what  rapture  t 


382  "0  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA  1" 

His  horse  stumbles  slightly ;  he  rouses  with  a  start. 
A  shudder  thrills  him,  and,  as  in  the  morning,  he  is 
horrified  at  himself.  Will  it  always  be  thus?  Can 
he  not  relax  his  hold  upon  himself  for  one  instant 
without  having  every  thought  rush  in  one  direction, 
without  being  possessed  by  one  intense  longing?  How 
can  he  thus  desecrate  Olga's  image  ? 

Meanwhile,  the  expected  guests  have  arrived  at  Do- 
brotschau.  They  came  an  hour  ago, — three  carriage- 
loads  of  distinction  from,  Yienna,  some  of  them  dec- 
orated with  feudal  titles.  A  very  aristocratic  party 
will  assemble  at  table  in  Dobrotschau  to-day.  Countess 
Weiseneck,  a  born  Grinzing,  wife  of  a  rather  disgraceful 
mauvais  sujet,  whose  very  expensive  maintenance  she 
contests  paying,  and  from  whom  she  has  been  sepa- 
rated for  more  than  a  year ;  Countess  Mayenfeld,  nee 
Gerstel,  the  wife  of  a  gentleman  not  quite  five  feet  in 
height,  who  is  known  in  Vienna  by  the  sobriquet  of 
"the  numismatician."  When  his  betrothal  to  the 
wealthy  Amanda  Gerstel  was  announced,  society  de- 
clared that  he  had  chosen  his  bride  to  augment  his 
collection  of  coins.  His  passion  for  collecting  coins 
enables  this  knightly  aristocrat  to  endure  with  phi- 
losophy the  cold  shoulders  which  his  nearest  relatives 
turned  to  him  after  his  marriage;  moreover,  he  lives 
upon  excellent  terms  with  his  wizened  little  wife.  One 
more  couple  with  a  brand-new  but  high-sounding  title ; 
then  an  unmarried  countess,  with  short  hair  and  a 
masculine  passion  for  sport, — an  acquaintance  made 
at  a  watering-place ;  then  Baron  Kilary,  the  cleverest 


"O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  383 

business-man  among  Vienna  aristocrats,  who  is  always 
ready  to  eat  oysters  and  pate  de  foie  gras  at  any  man's 
table,  without,  however,  so  far  forgetting  himself  as  to 
require  his  wife  and  daughter  to  visit  any  one  of  his 
entertainers  who  is  socially  his  inferior.  The  famous 
poet,  Paul  Angelico  Orchys,  and  little  Baron  Konigs- 
feld,  complete  the  list  of  arrivals. 

The  first  greetings  are  over ;  ended  also  is  the  run- 
ning to  and  fro  of  lady's-maids  looking  for  mislaid  hand- 
bags, with  the  explanations  of  servants,  who,  having 
carried  the  trunks  to  the  wrong  rooms,  are  trying  to 
make  good  their  mistakes.  All  is  quiet.  The  ladies 
and  gentlemen  are  seated  at  small  tables  in  a  shady 
part  of  the  park,  drinking  tea  and  fighting  off  a  host 
of  wasps  that  have  attacked  the  delicacies  forming 
part  of  the  afternoon  repast. 

The  castle  is  empty;  the  sound  of  distant  voices 
alone  falls  on  Lato's  ear  as  he  returns  from  his  expe- 
dition to  X and  goes  to  his  room,  desirous  only 

of  deferring  as  long  as  possible  the  playing  of  his  part 
in  this  tiresome  entertainment.  The  first  thing  to  meet 
his  eyes  on  his  writing-table  is  a  letter  addressed  to 
himself.  He  picks  it  up ;  the  envelope  is  stamped  with 
a  coronet  and  Selina's  monogram.  He  tears  the  letter 
open ;  it  encloses  nothing  save  a  package  of  bank-notes, 
— eighteen  hundred  guilders  in  Austrian  currency. 

Lato's  first  emotion  is  anger.  What  good  will  the 
wretched  money  do  him  now?  How  rejoiced  he  ia 
that  he  no  longer  needs  it,  that  he  can  return  it 
within  the  hour  to  Selina!  The  address  arrests  his 
attention;  there  is  something  odd  about  it.  Is  it 


384  "O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!" 

Selina's  handwriting?  At  first  sight  he  had  thought 
it  was,  but  now,  upon  a  closer  inspection — can  it  be 
his  mother-in-law's  hand?  Is  she  trying  to  avoid  a 
domestic  scandal  by  atoning  thus  for  her  daughter's 
harshness?  He  tosses  the  money  aside  in  disgust. 
Suddenly  a  peculiar  fragrance  affects  him  agreeably. 
What  is  it? — a  faint  odour  of  heliotrope.  Could  it 

be ?    His  downcast  eyes  discover  a  tiny  bunch  of 

faded  purple  blossoms  lying  on  the  floor  almost  at  his 
feet.  He  stoops,  picks  it  up,  and  kisses  it  passionately: 
it  is  the  bunch  of  heliotrope  which  Olga  wore  on  her 
breast  at  breakfast.  It  is  she  who  has  cared  for  him, 
who  has  thought  of  him ! 
But  instantly,  after  the  first  access  of  delight,  comes 

the  reaction.    How  could  Olga  have  known ?    Se- 

lina,  in  her  irritation,  may  have  proclaimed  his  request 
to  the  entire  household  ;  the  servants  may  be  dis- 
cussing in  the  kitchen  Count  Treurenberg's  applica- 
tion to  his  wife  for  eighteen  hundred  guilders,  and  her 
angry  refusal  to  grant  them  to  him.  He  clinches  his 
fist  and  bites  his  lip, — when  on  a  sudden  he  recalls  the 
rustle  of  a  robe  in  the  next  room,  which  he  thought 
he  heard  at  one  time  during  his  interview  with  Selina. 
The  blood  mounts  to  his  forehead.  Olga  had  been  in 
the  library;  she  had  heard  him  talking  with  his  wife. 
And  if  she  had  heard  him  ask  Selina  for  the  money, 

she  had  also  heard Ah!     He  buries  his  face  in 

his  hands. 

The  afternoon  tea  has  been  enjoyed ;  the  ladies  have 
withdrawn  to  their  rooms  to  "  arm  themselves  for  tho 


«  O  THOU,  MY  A  USTRIA !"  385 

fray,"  as  Paul  Angelico  expresses  it;  the  gentlemen 
have  betaken  themselves  to  the  billiard-room,  wheje 
they  are  playing  a  game,  as  they  smoke  the  excellent 
cigars  which  Baron  Kilary  has  ordered  a  lackey  to 
bring  them. 

Lato  has  wandered  out  into  the  park.  He  is  not 
quite  himself;  the  ground  beneath  his  feet  seems  un- 
certain. He  leans  against  the  trunk  of  a  tree,  always 
pondering  the  same  question,  "  "What  if  she  heard  ?" 

He  turns  involuntarily  into  the  garden-path  where, 
but  a  short  time  since,  he  had  soothed  her  agitation 
and  dried  her  tears.  There,  on  the  rough  birchen 
bench,  something  white  gleams.  Is  it ? 

He  would  fain  flee,  but  he  cannot ;  he  stands  as  if 
rooted  to  the  spot.  She  turns  her  face  towards  him, 
and  recognizes  him.  A  faint  colour  flushes  her  cheek, 
and  in  her  eyes,  which  rest  full  upon  him,  there  is  a 
heavenly  light. 

"  Lato !"  she  calls.  Is  that  her  voice  sounding  so 
full  and  soft  ?  She  rises  and  approaches  him.  He  has 
never  before  seen  her  look  so  beautiful.  Her  slender 
figure  is  erect  as  a  young  fir ;  she  carries  her  head 
like  a  youthful  queen  whose  brow  is  crowned  for  the 
first  time  with  the  diadem.  She  stands  beside  him; 
her  presence  thrills  him  to  his  very  soul. 

"  Olga,"  he  murmurs  at  last,  "  was  it  you  who  left 
the  money  on  my  table  ?  How  did  you  know  that  I 
wanted  it  ?"  he  asks,  bluntly,  almost  authoritatively. 

She  is  silent. 

"  Olga, — Olga,  were  you  in  the  library  while ?" 

She  nods. 
B       z  83 


386  "O  THOU,  Mr  AUSTRIA  I" 

"  And  you  heard  all, — everything  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Olga !"  His  eyes  are  riveted  upon  her  face  in  what 
ia  almost  horror. 

"  Olga,— what  now  ?" 

"I  cannot  bear  to  see  you  suffer,"  she  murmurs, 
scarce  audibly. 

Did  he  extend  bis  arms  to  her?  Ho  could  not  him- 
self tell ;  but  what  he  has  dreamed  has  happened, — he 
clasps  her  to  his  breast,  his  lips  meet  hers;  his  anguish 
is  past;  wings  seem  to  be  given  him  wherewith  to  soar 
to  heaven. 

But  only  for  an  instant  is  ho  thus  beguiled ;  then 
reality  in  its  full  force  bursts  upon  him.  He  unclasps 
the  dear  arms  from  his  nock,  presses  one  last  kiss  upon 
the  girlish  hand  before  ho  releases  it,  and  then  turns 
and  walks  away  with  a  firm  tread,  without  looking 
round,  and  in  the  full  consciousness  of  the  truth, — the 
consciousness  that  no  wings  are  his,  and  that  the  heavy 
burden  which  has  weighed  him  down  is  doubly  heavy 
now. 


"O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA  I"  387 

CHAPTER    XXXIX. 

THE  DINNER. 

TAKEN  altogether,  Fainacky  may  be  but  a  very 
ordinary  pattern  of  a  man,  but  as  a  mditre  de  plaisir 
in  the  arrangement  of  a  fete  he  is  unrivalled.  A  more 
exquisite  table  than  that  around  which  the  twenty 
people  are  assembled  who  form  the  rehearsing  party 
for  Harry's  betrothal  festival  it  would  be  difficult  to 
imagine.  The  only  criticism  that  can  be  made  is  that 
the  guests  are  rather  far  apart ;  but  who  could  have 
foreseen  that  at  the  last  moment  four  people  would 
be  lacking?  The  Paul  Leskjewitsches,  with  their 
niece,  sent  regrets,  and  Olga,  just  before  dinner,  was 
obliged  to  retire  with  a  severe  headache,  to  which  she 
succumbed  in  spite  of  her  aunt's  exhortations  to  her 
"  not  to  mind  it."  Lato  is  present ;  he  is  indifferent  as 
to  where  his  hours  drag  past.  He  is  determined  to 
prevent  Olga's  being  made  the  subject  of  discussion, 
and  his  social  training,  with  the  numbness  sure  to 
ensue  upon  great  mental  agitation,  stands  him  in  stead ; 
he  plays  his  part  faultlessly.  Now  and  then  the  con- 
sciousness of  his  hopeless  misery  flashes  upon  him, 
then  it  fades  again;  he  forgets  all  save  the  present 
moment,  and  he  scans  everything  about  him  with  keen 
observation,  as  if  he  had  no  part  or  parcel  in  it,  but 
were  looking  at  it  all  as  at  another  world. 

Yes,  the  table  is  charmingly  decorated;   anything 


388  "  O  THO  U,  MY  A  USTRIA  I" 

more  tasteful  or  more  correct  in  every  respect  could 
not  be  imagined ;  but  the  people  gathered  about  this 
sparkling  board, — never  before  has  he  seen  them  so 
clearly  or  judged  them  so  severely. 

His  contempt  is  specially  excited  by  his  social  equals. 
Fritz  Mayenfeld,  "the  numismatician,"  does  not  long 
occupy  his  attention.  In  spite  of  his  rank,  he  has 
always  manifested  thoroughly  plebeian  instincts;  his 
greed  of  gain  is  notorious ;  and  he  looks,  and  is,  en- 
tirely at  home  in  the  Harfink  domestic  atmosphere. 
The  descent  of  the  other  aristocrats  present,  however, 
— of  Kilary,  of  the  short-haired  Countess,  and  of  the 
affected  Count  Fermor, — is  tolerably  evident  in  their 
faces,  and  they  all  seem  determined  to  assert  their 
aristocratic  prestige  in  the  same  manner, — by  im- 
pertinence. 

Lato  is  conscious  of  a  horror  of  his  own  caste  as  he 
studies  these  degenerate  members  of  it.  He  turns  his 
attention  to  the  three  guests  from  Komaritz, — the 
Countess  Zriny,  Hedwig,  and  Hairy.  The  old  canon- 
ess,  who  is  seated  on  his  right,  provokes  his  smile. 
The  superb  condescension  with  which,  for  love  of  her 
nephew,  she  treats  "  these  people  j"  the  formal  courtesy 
with  which  she  erects  an  insurmountable  barrier  be- 
tween them  and  herself;  the  morsels  of  liberalism 
which  she  scatters  here  and  there  in  her  conversation 
for  their  comfort  and  delectation, — all  are  worthy  of 
the  most  enthusiastic  praise. 

Poor  old  woman !  How  important  she  is  in  her  own 
eyes!  Her  gown  is  the  ugliest  and  shabbiest  there 
(the  one  the  sporting  Countess  wears  was  given  her 


"0  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  389 

by  Selina),  but  six  strings  of  wonderful  pearls  which 
she  wears  around  her  neck  make  her  all  right.  Hed- 
wig, — well,  she  is  a  little  more  affected  than  usual; 
she  is  flirting  with  little  Baron  Konigsfeld,  who  took 
her  in  to  dinner,  playing  him  off  against  her  neighbour 
on  the  other  side,  Count  Fermor.  And  Harry, — with 
profound  sympathy  and  intense  compassion  Lato's  eyes 
rest  upon  his  friend.  Simple,  without  pretension  or 
affectation,  very  courteous  without  condescension,  a 
little  formal,  perhaps,  withal, — as  the  most  natural  of 
men  must  be  where  he  feels  himself  a  stranger, — with 
that  in  his  face  and  bearing  that  distinguishes  him 
above  every  one  present,  he  is  the  only  specimen  of 
his  own  caste  there  with  whom  Lato  feels  satisfied. 

"  They  may  abuse  us  as  they  please,"  he  thinks  to 
himself, — "nay,  I  even  join  them  in  abusing, — but  if 
one  of  us  gives  his  word  he  stands  to  it."  And  then 
he  questions  whether  in  any  other  rank  could  be  found 
such  an  example  of  noble  and  manly  beauty,  or  of  such 
quixotic,  self-annihilating,  chivalrous  honour.  "  Good 
heavens  1  why  not?"  he  makes  reply  to  himself.  "So 
far  as  moral  worth  is  concerned,  assuredly;  only  in 
form  it  would  probably  be  less  refined." 

Lato  has  had  much  experience  of  life.  He  has  laid 
aside  all  the  prejudices  of  his  class,  but  the  subtile 
caste-instinct  still  abides  with  him.  He  asks  himself 
whether  his  family — the  Harfink  family — notice  the 
difference  between  Harry  and  the  other  aristocrats 
present ;  whether  the  Harfinks  will  not  be  finally  dis- 
gusted by  the  impertinence  of  these  coxcombs; 
whether  they  do  not  feel  the  offensive  condescension 

83* 


390  "  O  THOU,  Mr  A  USTRIA  /" 

of  the  Countess  Zriny.  It  would  seem  not.  The 
Harfinks,  mother  and  daughters,  are  quite  satisfied 
with  what  is  accorded  them  ;  they  are  overflowing 
with  gratified  vanity,  and  are  enjoying  the  success  of 
the  festival.  Even  Selina  is  pleased ;  Olga's  absence 
seems  to  have  soothed  her.  She  informs  Lato,  by  all 
kinds  of  amiable  devices, — hints  which  she  lets  fall  in 
conversation,  glances  which  she  casts  towards  him, — 
that  she  is  sorry  for  the  scene  of  the  morning,  and  is 
ready  to  acquiesce.  She  tells  her  neighbour  at  dinner, 
Baron  Kilary,  that  to-day  is  the  anniversary  of  her 
betrothal. 

Lato  becomes  more  and  more  strongly  impressed  by 
the  conviction  that  her  severe  attack  of  jealousy  has 
aroused  within  her  something  of  her  old  sentiment 
for  him.  The  thought  disgusts  him  profoundly;  he 
feels  for  her  a  positive  aversion. 

His  attention  is  chiefly  bestowed  upon  Harry.  How 
the  poor  fellow  suffers !  writhing  beneath  the  ostenta- 
tious anxiety  of  his  betrothed,  who  exhausts  herself 
in  sympathetic  inquiries  as  to  his  pallor,  ascribing  it 
to  every  cause  save  the  true  one. 

"What  will  become  of  him  if  he  docs  not  succeed 
in  ridding  himself  of  this  intolerable  burden?"  Lato 
asks  himself.  An  inexpressible  dread  assails  him.  "A 
candidate  for  suicide,"  he  thinks,  and  for  a  moment  he 
feels  dizzy  and  ill. 

But  why  should  Harry  die,  when  his  life  might  be 
adjusted  by  one  word  firmly  uttered?  He  might  be 
saved,  and  then  what  a  sunny  bright  future  would 
be  his !  If  one  could  but  help  him ! 


"O  THOU,  Mr  AUSTRIA!"  391 

The  dinner  is  half  over ;  punch  is  being  served.  The 
tall  windows  of  the  dining-hall  are  wide  open,  the 
breeze  has  died  away  for  the  time,  the  night  is  quiet, 
the  outlook  upon  the  park  enchanting.  Coloured  lamps, 
shaped  like  fantastic  flowers,  illumine  the  shrubbery, 
whence  comes  soft  music. 

All  the  anguish  which  had  been  stilled  for  the  moment 
stirs  within  Lato's  breast  at  sound  of  the  sweet  in- 
sinuating tones.  They  arouse  within  him  an  insane 
thirst  for  happiness.  If  it  were  but  possible  to  obtain 
a  divorce !  Caressingly,  dreamily,  the  notes  of  "  South- 
ern Roses"  float  in  from  the  park. 

"  Ah !  how  that  reminds  me  of  my  betrothal !"  says 
Selina,  moving  her  fan  to  and  fro  in  time  with  the 
music.  Involuntarily  Lato  glances  at  her. 

She  wears  a  red  gown,  decolldee  as  of  old.  Her 
shoulders  have  grown  stouter,  her  features  sharper,  but 
she  is  hardly  changed  otherwise;  many  would  pro- 
nounce her  handsomer  than  she  had  been  on  that  other 
sultry  September  evening  when  it  had  first  occurred  to 
him  that  he — loved  her — no,  when  he  lied  to  himself — 
because — it  seemed  so  easy. 

He  falls  into  a  revery,  from  which  he  is  aroused  by 
the  poet  Angelico  Orchys,  who  rises,  glass  in  hand,  and 
in  fluent  verse  proposes  the  health  of  the  betrothed 
couple.  Glasses  are  clinked,  and  scarcely  are  all  seated 
again  when  Fainacky  toasts  the  manned  pair  who  are 
celebrating  to-day  the  sixth  anniversary  of  their  be- 
trothal. Every  one  rises;  Selina  holds  her  glass  out 
to  Lato  with  a  languishing  glance  from  her  half-closed 
eyes  as  she  smiles  at  him  over  the  brim. 


392  "0  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!" 

He  shudders.  And  he  has  dared  to  hope  for  a  di. 
vorce ! 

The  clinking  of  glasses  has  ceased;  again  all  are 
seated ;  a  fresh  course  of  viands  is  in  progress ;  there 
is  a  pause  in  the  conversation,  while  the  music  wails 
and  sighs  outside,  Fainacky  from  his  place  at  table 
making  all  sorts  of  mysterious  signs  to  the  leader. 

Treurenberg's  misery  has  become  so  intense  within 
the  last  few  minutes  that  he  can  scarcely  endure  it 
without  some  outward  sign  of  it,  when  suddenly  a 
thought  occurs  to  him,  a  little,  gloomy  thought,  that 
slowly  increases  like  a  thunder-cloud.  His  breath 
comes  quick,  the  cold  perspiration  breaks  out  upon  his 
forehead,  his  heart  beats  strong  and  fast. 

"  Is  anything  the  matter,  Lato  ?"  Selina  asks,  across 
the  table;  "you  have  grown  so  pale.  Do  you  feel  the 
draught  ?" 

He  does  not  answer.  His  heart  has  ceased  to  beat 
wildly;  a  soothing  calm,  a  sense  of  relief,  takes  pos- 
session of  him ;  he  seems  to  have  discovered  the  solu- 
tion of  a  huge,  tormenting  riddle. 

Presently  the  wine  begins  to  take  effect,  and  con- 
versation drowns  the  toaes  of  the  music.  Culinary 
triumphs  have  been  discussed,  there  has  been  some 
political  talk,  anti-Semitic  opinions,  in  very  bad  taste, 
have  been  expressed,  and  now,  in  spite  of  the  presence 
of  several  young  girls,  various  scandals  are  alluded  to. 

"  Have  any  of  you  heard  the  latest  developments  in 
the  Keinsfeld-Gladnjik  case?"  Kilary  asks. 

Treurenberg  listens. 

The  sporting  Countess  replies:  "No:  for  two  years 


"O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  393 

I  have  seen  nothing  of  Ada  Reinsfeld — since  the — well, 
since  she  left  her  husband;  one  really  had  to  give 
her  up.  I  am  very  lenient  in  such  affairs,  but  one  has 
no  choice  where  the  scandal  is  a  matter  of  such  pub- 
licity." 

"  I  entirely  agree  with  you,  my  dear  Countess,"  says 
the  Baroness  Harfink.  "  So  long  as  due  respect  is  paid 
to  external  forms,  the  private  weaknesses  of  my  neigh- 
bours are  no  concern  of  mine ;  but  external  forms  must 
be  observed." 

"  My  cousin's  course  throughout  that  business  was 
that  of  a  crazy  woman,"  says  "  the  numismatician,"  with 
his  mouth  full.  "  She  was  mistress  of  the  best-ordered 

house  in  Graz.  Reinsfeld's  cook  was !  never  in 

my  life  did  I  taste  such  salmi  of  partridges — except  on 
this  occasion,"  he  adds,  with  an  inclination  towards  his 
hostess.  The  next  moment  he  motions  to  a  servant  to 
fill  his  glass,  and  forgets  all  about  his  cousin  Ada. 

"  Poor  Ada !  She  was  very  charming,  but  she  became 
interested  in  all  sorts  of  free-thinking  books,  and  they 
turned  her  head,"  says  the  Countess  Zriny.  "  In  my 
opinion  a  woman  who  reads  Strauss  and  Renan  is 
lost." 

"  The  remarks  of  the  company  are  excessively  in- 
teresting to  me,"  Kilary  now  strikes  in,  with  an  im- 
pertinent intonation  in  his  nasal  voice,  "but  I  beg  to 
be  allowed  to  speak,  since  what  I  have  to  tell  is  quite 
sensational.  You  know  that  Countess  Ada  has  tried 
in  vain  to  induce  her  noble  husband  to  consent  to  a 
divorce.  Meanwhile,  Gladnjik's  condition  culminated 
in  galloping  consumption,  and  two  days  ago  he  died." 


394  "O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!" 

"  And  she  ?"  several  voices  asked  at  once. 

"  She  ? — she  took  poison !" 

For  a  moment  there  is  a  bush  in  the  brilliantly-lighted 
room,  the  soft  sighing  of  the  music  in  the  shrubbery  is 
again  audible.  Through  the  open  windows  is  wafted  in 
the  beguiling  charm  of  an  Hungarian  dance  by  Brahms. 

There  is  a  change  of  sentiment  in  the  assemblage : 
the  harshness  with  which  but  now  all  had  judged  the 
Countess  Ada  gives  place  to  compassionate  sympathy. 

Countess  Zriny  presses  her  lace-trimmed  handker- 
chief to  her  eyes.  "Poor  Ada!"  she  murmurs;  "I 
can  see  her  now ;  a  more  charming  young  girl  there 
never  was.  Why  did  they  force  her  to  marry  that  old 
Eeinsfeld  ?" 

"  Ho  had  so  excellent  a  cook,"  sneers  Kilary,  with  a 
glance  at  "  the  numismatician,"  from  whose  armour  of 
excellent  appetite  the  dart  falls  harmless. 

"Forced!"  Paula  interposes  eagerly,  in  her  deep, 
guttural  tones.  "As  if  nowadaj's  any  one  with  a 
spark  of  character  could  be  forced  to  marry  1" 

Harry  twirls  his  moustache  and  looks  down  at  his 
plate. 

"  I  am  the  last  to  defend  a  departure  from  duty," 
the  old  canoness  goes  on,  "  but  in  this  case  the  blame 
really  falls  partly  upon  Ada's  family.  They  forced 
her  to  marry ;  they  subjected  her  to  moral  force." 

"That  is  true,"  even  Kilary,  heartless  cynic  as  he 
is,  admits.  "They  forced  her,  although  they  knew 
that  she  and  Niki  Gladnjik  were  attached  to  each 
other.  Moreover,  I  must  confess  that,  in  spite  of  the 
admirable  qualities  which  distinguish  Reinsfeld, — as, 


"O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  395 

for  example,  his  excellent  cook, — it  must  have  been 
very  difficult  for  a  delicate-minded,  refined  young 
creature  to  live  with  the  disgusting  old  satyr — my 
expressions  are  classically  correct." 

"Niki  took  her  marriage  sorely  to  heart,"  sighed 
the  sporting  Countess.  "They  say  ho  ruined  his 
health  by  the  dissipation  into  which  he  plunged  to 
find  forgetfulness.  In  that  direction  Ada  certainly 
was  much  to  blame;  she  was  carried  away  by  com- 
passion." 

Meanwhile,  Fainacky  has  made  another  sign  for  the 
music.  The  dreamy  half-notes  die  away,  and  the  loud 
tones  of  a  popular  march  echo  through  the  night. 

All  rise  from  table. 

Treurenberg's  brain  spins,  as  with  the  Countess 
Zriny  on  his  arm  he  walks  into  the  garden-room,  where 
the  guests  are  to  admire  the  decorations  and  to  drink 
their  coffee. 

"  The  fair  Olga  is  not  seriously  ill  V  he  hears  Kilary 
say  to  Selina. 

"  Oh,  not  at  all,"  Selina  replies.  "  You  need  not  fear 
anything  infectious.  Olga  is  rather  overstrained  and 
exaggerated ;  you  cannot  imagine  what  a  burden  papa 
left  us  in  the  care  of  her.  But  we  have  settled  it 
to-day  with  mamma :  she  must  leave  the  house, — at 
least  for  a  time.  My  aunt  Emilie  is  to  take  her  to 
Italy.  It  will  be  a  great  relief  to  us  all." 


396  "O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!" 

CHAPTER   XL. 

A  FAREWELL. 

WHILE  some  of  the  guests  are  contented  merely  to 
admire  the  decorations  of  the  garden-room,  others 
suggest  improvements.  They  cannot  quite  agree  us 
to  where  the  musicians  should  be  placed,  and  the 
band  migrates  from  one  spot  to  another,  like  a  set  of 
homeless  fugitives  ;  in  one  place  the  music  is  too  loud, 
in  another  it  is  not  loud  enough.  Hilary's  nasal,  arro- 
gant voice  is  heard  everywhere  in  command.  At  last 
the  band  is  stationed  just  before  the  large  western 
window  of  the  room.  Some  one  suggests  trying  a 
waltz.  Kilary  waltzes  with  Selina.  Treurenberg 
watches  the  pair.  They  waltz  in  the  closest  embrace, 
her  head  almost  resting  on  his  shoulder. 

Once  Lato  might  have  remonstrated  with  his  wife 
upon  such  an  exhibition  of  herself;  but  to-day, — ah, 
how  indifferent  he  is  to  it  all !  He  turns  away  from 
the  crowd  and  noise,  and  walks  beyond  the  circle  of 
light  into  the  park.  Here  a  hand  is  laid  on  his 
shoulder.  He  turns :  Harry  has  followed  him. 

"What  is  the  matter,  old  fellow?"  he  asks,  good- 
humouredly.  "  I  do  not  like  your  looks  to-day." 

"I  cannot  get  Ada  Reinsfeld  out  of  my  head," 
Treurenberg  rejoins,  in  a  low  tone. 

"  Did  you  know  her  ?"  asks  Harry. 

"Yes;  did  you?" 


«O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  397 

"  Yes,  but  not  until  after  her  marriage.  I  liked  her 
extremely ;  in  fact,  I  have  rarely  met  a  more  charm- 
ing woman.  And  she  seemed  to  me  serious-minded 
and  thoroughly  sincere.  The  story  to-day  affected  me 
profoundly." 

"Did  you  notice  that  not  one  of  the  women  had 
a  good  word  to  say  for  the  poor  thing  until  they 
knew  that  she  was  dead  ?"  Treurenberg  asks,  his  voice 
Bounding  hard  and  stern. 

"  Yes,  I  noticed  it,"  replies  Harry,  scanning  his  friend 
attentively. 

"  They  may  perhaps  waste  a  wreath  of  immortelles 
upon  her  coffin,"  Treurenberg  goes  on,  in  the  same 
hard  tone,  "  but  not  one  of  them  would  have  offered 
her  a  hand  while  she  lived." 

"  Well,  she  did  not  lose  much  in  the  friendship  of  the 
women  present  to-day,"  Harry  observes,  dryly;  "but, 
unfortunately,  I  am  afraid  that  far  nobler  and  more 
generous-minded  women  also  withdrew  their  friend- 
ship from  poor  Ada;  and,  in  fact,  we  cannot  blame 
them.  We  cannot  require  our  mothers  and  sisters  to 
visit  without  remonstrance  a  woman  who  has  run 
away  from  her  husband  and  is  living  with  another 
man." 

"  Run  away ;  living  with  another  man :  how  vulgar 
that  sounds  1"  Treurenberg  exclaims,  angrily. 

"  Our  language  has  no  other  words  for  this  case." 

"  I  do  not  comprehend  you ;  you  judge  as  harshly  as 
the  rest." 

They  have  walked  on  and  have  reached  a  rustic  seat 
quite  in  the  shade,  beyond  the  light  even  of  the 

84 


398  "0  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA r 

coloured  lamps.  Harry  sits  down;  Lato  follows  bis 
example. 

"  How  am  I  to  judge,  then  ?"  Harry  asks. 

"  In  my  eyes  Ada  was  a  martyr,"  Treurenberg  asserts. 

"  So  she  was  in  mine,"  Harry  admits. 

"  I  have  the  greatest  admiration  for  her." 

"  And  I  only  the  deepest  compassion,"  Harry  de- 
clares, adding,  in  a  lower  tone,  "  I  say  not  a  word  in 
blame  of  her;  Niki  was  the  guiltier  of  tho  two.  A 
really  noble  woman,  when  she  loves,  forgets  to  consider 
the  consequences  of  her  conduct,  especially  when  pity 
sanctifies  her  passion  and  atones  in  her  eyes  for  her 
sin.  She  sees  an  ideal  life  before  her,  and  does  not 
doubt  that  she  shall  attain  it.  Ada  believed  that 
she  should  certainly  procure  her  divorce,  and  that  all 
would  be  well.  She  did  not  see  the  mire  through  which 
she  should  have  to  struggle  to  attain  her  end,  and  that 
even  were  it  attained,  no  power  on  earth  could  wash 
out  the  stains  incurred  in  attaining  it.  Niki  should 
have  spared  her  that ;  he  knew  life  well  enough  to  be 
perfectly  aware  of  the  significance  of  the  step  she  took 
for  him." 

"  Yes,  you  are  right ;  women  never  know  the  world  ; 
they  see  about  them  only  what  is  fair  and  sacred,  a 
young  girl  particularly." 

"  Oh,  in  such  matters  a  young  girl  is  out  of  tho  ques- 
tion," Harry  sharply  interrupts. 

There  is  an  oppressive  silence.    Lato  shivers. 

"You  are  cold,"  Harry  says,  with  marked  gentleness; 
"  come  into  the  house." 

"  No,  no ;  stay  here  I" 


"O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA  I"  399 

Through  the  silence  come  the  strains  of  a  waltz  of 
Arditi's  "  La  notte  gia  stendi  suo  manto  stellato,"  and  the 
faint  rustle  of  the  dancers'  feet. 

"  How  is  your  cousin  ?"  Lato  asks,  after  a  while. 

"  I  do  not  know.  I  have  not  spoken  with  her  since 
she  left  Komaritz,"  Harry  replies,  evasively. 

"  And  have  you  not  seen  her  ?"  asks  Lato. 

"  Yes,  once ;  I  looked  over  the  garden- wall  as  I  rode 
by.  She  looks  pale  and  thin,  poor  child." 

Lato  is  mute.    Harry  goes  on : 

"  Do  you  remember,  Lato?  is  it  three  or  four  weeks 
ago,  the  last  time  you  were  with  me  in  Komaritz  ?  I 
could  jest  then  at  my — embarrassments.  I  daily  ex- 
pected my  release.  Now "  he  shrugs  his  shoulders. 

"  You  were  angry  with  me  then ;  angry  because  I 
would  not  interfere,"  Lato  says,  with  hesitation. 

"  Oh,  it  would  have  been  useless,"  Harry  mutters. 

Instead  of  continuing  the  subject,  Lato  restlessly 
snaps  a  twig  hanging  above  his  head.  "  How  terribly 
dry  everything  is  1"  he  murmurs. 

"Yes,"  says  Harry;  "so  long  as  it  was  warm  we 
looked  for  a  storm ;  the  cool  weather  has  come  without 
rain,  and  everything  is  dead." 

"  The  spring  will  revive  it  all,  and  the  blessing  of 
the  coming  year  will  be  doubled,"  Lato  whispers,  in  a 
low,  soft  tone  that  rings  through  Harry's  soul  for 
years  afterwards. 

"Harry!  Harry!  where  are  you?  Come,  try  one 
turn  with  me."  It  is  Paula's  powerful  voice  that  culls 
thus.  She  is  steering  directly  for  the  spot  where  the 
friends  are  seated. 


400  "O  THOU,  MF  AUSTRIA  I" 

"  Give  my  love  to  Zdena,  when  you  see  her,"  Lato 
whispers  in  his  friend's  ear  as  he  clasps  Harry's  hand 
warmly,  and  then  vanishes  among  the  dark  shrubbery 
before  the  young  fellow  is  aware  of  it. 


CHAPTEE   XLI. 

RESOLVE. 

LATO  now  stands  in  need  of  all  the  energy  with 
which  Providence  has  endowed  him.  All  the  excel- 
lence and  nobility  that  have  hitherto  lain  dormant  in 
his  soul  arouse  to  life,  now  that  they  can  but  help 
him  to  die  like  a  man.  He  cannot  sever  the  golden 
fetters  which  he  himself  has  forged  ;  he  will  not  drag 
through  the  mire  what  is  most  sacred  to  him ;  well, 
then 

Upon  reaching  his  room  he  seated  himself  at  his 
writing-table  and  wrote  several  letters, — the  first  to  his 
father,  requesting  him  to  see  that  his  debts  were  paid ; 
one  to  Paula,  one  to  his  mother-in-law,  and  one  to 
Harry.  The  letter  to  Harry  ran  thus : 

"  MY  DEAR  GOOD   OLD   COMRADE, — 

"  When  this  note  reaches  you,  you  will  be  already 
freed  from  your  fetters.  I  have  never  forgiven  myself 
for  refusing  to  perform  the  service  you  asked  of  me, 
and  I  have  now  retrieved  my  fault.  I  have  written  to 


"  O  THO  U,  MF  A  USTRIA  /»  401 

Paula  and  to  my  mother-in-law,  explaining  your  posi- 
tion to  them,  telling  them  the  truth  with  brutal  frank- 
ness, and  leaving  no  course  open  to  them  save  to  release 
you.  You  are  free.  Farewell. 

"  Yours  till  death, 

"LATO   TEETJKENBIEa." 

±fe  tossed  the  pen  aside. 

The  others  were  still  dancing.  The  sound  of  the 
music  came  softly  from  the  distance.  He  rested  his 
head  on  his  hands  and  pondered. 

He  has  seen  clearly  that  it  must  be.  He  had  written 
the  letters  as  the  first  irrevocable  step.  But  how  was 
it  to  be  done? 

He  looked  for  his  revolver.  It  might  all  be  over  in 
a  moment.  He  caught  up  the  little  weapon  with  a 
kind  of  greed.  Suddenly  he  recalled  a  friend  who  had 
shot  himself,  and  whose  body  he  had  seen  lying  on  the 
bed  where  the  deed  had  been  done :  there  were  ugly 
stains  of  blood  upon  the  pillow.  His  nature  revolted 
from  everything  ugly  and  unclean.  And  then  the  scene, 
the  uproar  that  would  ensue  upon  discovering  the 
corpse.  If  he  could  only  avoid  all  that,  could  only 
cloak  the  ugly  deed.  Meanwhile,  his  faithful  hound 
came  to  him  from  a  corner  of  the  room,  and,  as  if  sus- 
picious that  all  was  not  right  with  its  master,  laid  its 
head  upon  his  knee. 

The  way  was  clear, — Lato  had  lately  frequently 

risen  early  in  the  morning  to  stalk  a  deer,  which  had 

escaped  his  gun  again  and  again ;  he  had  but  to  slip 

out  of  the  house  for  apparently  the  same  purpose, 

aa  34* 


402  "O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!" 

and It  would  be  more  easily  done  beneath  God'a 

open  skies.  But  several  hours  must  elapse  before  he 
could  leave  the  castle.  That  was  terrible.  Would  his 
resolve  hold  good  ?  He  began  to  pace  the  room  rest- 
lessly to  and  fro. 

Had  he  forgotten  anything  that  ought  to  bo  done  ? 
He  paused  and  listened,  seeming  to  hear  a  light  foot- 
fall in  the  room  above  him.  Yes,  it  was  Olga's  room  ; 
he  could  hear  her  also  walking  to  and  fro,  to  and  fro. 
His  breath  came  quick ;  everything  within  him  cried 
out  for  happiness,  for  life !  He  threw  himself  upon 
his  bed,  buried  his  face  among  the  pillows,  clinched 
his  hands,  and  so  waited,  motionless. 

At  last  the  steps  overhead  ceased,  the  music  was 
silent ;  there  was  a  rustling  in  the  corridors, — the 
guests  were  retiring  to  their  rooms;  then  all  was 
still,  as  still  as  death. 

Lato  arose,  lit  a  candle,  and  looked  at  his  watch, — 
half-past  two.  There  was  still  something  on  his  heart, 
— a  discontent  of  which  he  would  fain  disburden  him- 
self before  the  end.  He  sat  down  again  at  his  writing- 
table,  and  wrote  a  few  lines  to  Olga,  pouring  out  his 
soul  to  her;  then,  opening  his  letter  to  Harry,  he 
added  a  postscript:  "It  would  be  useless  to  attempt 
any  disguise  with  you, — you  have  read  my  heart 
too  clearly, — and  therefore  I  can  ask  a  last  office  of 
friendship  of  you.  Give  Olga  the  enclosed  note  from 
me, — I  do  not  wish  any  one  here  to  know  of  this, — 
my  farewell  to  her.  Think  no  evil  of  her.  Should 
any  one  slander  her,  never  believe  it! — never  I" 

He  would  have  written  more,  but  words  failed  him 


"O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA  I"  403 

to  express  what  he  felt;  so  he  enclosed  his  note  to 
Olga  in  his  letter  to  Harry  and  sealed  and  stamped  it. 

His  thoughts  began  td  wander  vaguely.  Old  legends 
occurred  to  him.  Suddenly  he  laughed  at  something 
that  had  occurred  ten  years  before,  at  Komaritz, — the 
trick  Harry  had  played  upon  Fainacky,  the  "  braggart 
Sarmatian." 

He  heard  himself  laugh,  and  shuddered.  The  gray 
dawn  began  to  glimmer  in  the  east.  He  looked  at  his 
watch, — it  was  time  1  He  drew  a  long,  sighing  breath, 
and  left  his  room ;  the  dog  followed  him.  In  the  cor- 
ridor he  paused,  possessed  by  a  wild  desire  to  creep 
to  Olga's  door  and,  kneeling  before  it,  to  kiss  the 
threshold.  He  took  two  steps  towards  the  staircase, 
then,  by  a  supreme  effort,  controlled  himself  and 
turned  back. 

But  in  the  park  he  sought  the  spot  where  he  had 
met  her  yesterday,  where  he  had  kissed  her  for  the 
first  and  only  time.  Here  he  stood  still  for  a  while, 
and,  looking  down,  perceived  the  half-eifaced  impress 
of  a  small  foot  upon  the  gravel.  He  stooped  and 
pressed  his  lips  upon  it. 

Now  he  has  left  the  park,  and  the  village  too  lies 
behind  him;  he  has  posted  his  letter  to  Harry  in  the 
yellow  box  in  front  of  the  post-office.  He  walks 
through  the  poplar  avenue  where  she  came  to  meet 
him  scarcely  three  weeks  ago.  He  can  still  feel  the 
touch  of  her  delicate  hand.  A  bird  twitters  faintly 
above  his  head,  and  recalls  to  his  memory  how  he  had 
watched  the  belated  little  feathered  vagabond  hurrying 
home  to  its  nest. 


404  "O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA  I" 

"A  life  that  warms  itself  beside  another  life  in 
which  it  finds  peace  and  comfort,"  he  murmurs  to 
himself.  An  almost  irresistible  force  stays  his  steps. 
But  no ;  he  persists,  and  walks  on  towards  the  forest. 
He  will  only  wait  for  the  sunrise,  and  then 

He  waits  in  vain.  The  heavens  are  covered  with 
clouds ;  a  sharp  wind  sighs  above  the  fields ;  the 
leaves  tremble  as  if  in  mortal  terror;  for  the  first  time 
in  six  weeks  a  few  drops  of  rain  fall.  No  splendour 
hails  the  awakening  world,  but  along  the  eastern  hori- 
zon there  is  a  blood-red  streak.  Just  in  Lato's  path  a 
solitary  white  butterfly  flutters  upon  the  ground.  The 
wind  grows  stronger,  the  drops  fall  more  thickly; 
the  pale  blossoms  by  the  roadside  shiver;  the  red 
poppies  do  not  open  their  cups,  but  hang  their  heads 
as  if  drunk  with  sleep. 


CHAPTEE   XLII. 

FOUND. 

OLOA  had  remained  in  her  room  because  she  could 
not  bring  herself  to  meet  Treurenberg  again.  No,  she 
could  never  meet  him  after  the  words,  the  kiss,  they 
had  exchanged, — never — until  he  should  call  her.  For 
it  did  not  occur  to  her  to  recall  what  she  had  said 
to  him, — she  was  ready  for  everything  for  his  Bake. 
Not  a  thought  did  she  bestow  upon  the  disgrace  that 


«0  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA  I"  405 

would  attach  to  her  in  the  eyes  of  the  world.  "What 
did  she  care  what  people  said  or  thought  of  her  ?  But 
he, — what  if  she  had  disgraced  herself  in  his  eyes  by 
the  confession  of  her  love?  The  thought  tortured  her. 

She  kept  saying  to  herself,  "He  was  shocked  at  me; 
I  wounded  his  sense  of  delicacy.  Oh,  my  God  1  and 
yet  I  could  not  see  him  suffer  so, — I  could  not  1" 

When  night  came  on  she  lay  dressed  upon  her  bed 
for  hours,  now  and  then  rising  to  pace  the  room  to 
and  fro.  At  last  she  fell  asleep.  She  was  roused  by 
hearing  a  door  creak.  She  listened :  it  was  the  door 
of  Lato's  room.  Again  she  listened.  No,  she  must 
have  been  mistaken ;  it  was  folly  to  suppose  that  Lato 
would  think  of  leaving  the  house  at  a  little  after  three 
in  the  morning !  She  tried  to  be  calm,  and  began  to 
undress,  when  suddenly  a  horrible  suspicion  assailed 
her ;  her  teeth  chattered,  the  heart  in  her  breast  felt 
like  lead. 

"  I  must  have  been  mistaken,"  she  decided.  But  she 
could  not  be  at  rest.  She  went  out  into  the  corridor ; 
all  there  was  still.  The  dawn  was  changing  from  gray 
to  white.  She  glided  down  the  staircase  to  the  door 
of  Lato's  room,  where  she  kneeled  and  listened  at  the 
key-hole.  She  could  surely  hear  him  breathe,  she 
thought.  But  how  could  she  hear  it  when  her  own 
pulses  were  throbbing  so  loudly  in  her  heart,  in  her 
temples,  in  her  ears  ? 

She  listened  with  all  her  might:  nothing,  nothing 
could  she  hear.  Her  head  sank  against  the  door, 
which  was  ajar  and  yielded.  She  sprang  up  and,  half 
dead  with  shame,  was  about  to  flee,  when  she  paused. 


406  "O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!" 

If  he  were  in  his  room  would  not  the  creaking  of  the 
door  upon  its  hinges  have  roused  him?  Again  she 
turned  and  peered  into  the  room. 

At  the  first  glance  she  perceived  that  it  was  empty, 
and  that  the  bed  had  not  been  slept  in. 

With  her  heart  throbbing  as  if  to  break,  she  rushed 
up  to  her  room,  longing  to  scream  aloud,  to  rouse  the 
household  with  "  He  has  gone !  he  has  gone !  Search 
for  him !  save  him !" 

But  how  is  this  possible?  How  can  she  confess 
that  she  has  been  in  his  room  ?  Her  cheeks  burn ; 
half  fainting  in  her  misery,  she  throws  wide  her  window 
to  admit  the  fresh  morning  air. 

What  is  that?  A  scratching  at  the  house  door 
below,  and  then  a  melancholy  whine.  Olga  hurries 
out  into  the  corridor  again,  and  at  fh*st  cannot  tell 
whence  the  noise  proceeds.  It  grows  louder  and  more 
persistent,  an  impatient  scratching  and  knocking  at 
the  door  leading  out  into  the  park.  She  hastens  down 
the  stairs  and  opens  it. 

"  Lion !"  she  exclaims,  as  the  dog  leaps  upon  her, 
then  crouches  before  her  on  the  gravel,  gazes  piteously 
into  her  face,  and  utters  a  long  howl,  hoarse  and  omi- 
nous. Olga  stoops  down  to  him.  Good  God  I  what  is 
this?  His  shoulder,  his  paws  are  stained  with  blood. 
The  girl's  heart  seems  to  stand  still.  The  dog  seizes 
her  dress  as  if  to  drag  her  away;  releases  it,  runs 
leaping  into  the  park,  turns  and  looks  at  her.  Shall 
she  follow  him  ? 

Yes,  she  follows  him,  trembling,  panting,  through 
the  park,  through  the  village,  out  upon  the  highway, 


"O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA r  407 

i 

where  the  trees  are  vocal  with  the  shrill  twittering 
of  birds.  A  clumsy  peasant-cart  is  jolting  along  the 
road ;  the  sleepy  carter  rubs  his  eyes  and  gazes  after 
the  strange  figure  with  dishevelled  hair  and  disordered 
dress,  hastening  towards  the  forest. 

She  has  reached  it  at  last.  The  dog's  uneasiness  in- 
creases, and  he  disappears  among  the  trees.  Olga 
stops ;  she  cannot  go  on.  The  dog  howls  more  loudly, 
and  slowly,  holding  by  the  trees,  she  totters  forward. 
What  is  it  that  makes  the  ground  here  so  slippery? 
Blood  ?  There, — there  by  the  poacher's  grave,  at  the 
foot  of  the  rude  wooden  cross,  she  finds  him. 

A  shriek,  wild  and  hoarse,  rings  through  the  air. 
The  leaves  quiver  and  rustle  with  the  flight  of  the 
startled  birds  among  their  branches.  The  heavens  are 
filled  with  wailing,  and  the  earth  seems  to  rock  be- 
neath the  girl's  feet. 

Then  darkness  receives  her,  and  she  forgets  the 
hoiTor  of  it  all  in  unconsciousness. 


408  "O  THOU,  MF  AUSTRIA  1" 

* 

CHAPTEK    XLIII. 

COUNT   HANS. 

THERE  was  a  dinner  at  Count  Capriani's,  and  Count 
Hans  Treurenberg,  slender  and  erect,  the  embodiment 
of  elegant  frivolity,  had  just  said  something  witty. 
One  of  his  fellow-aristocrats,  a  noble  slave  of  Capriani's, 
had  been  discoursing  at  length  upon  the  new  era  that 
was  dawning  upon  the  world,  and  had  finally  proposed  a 
toast  to  the  union  of  the  two  greatest  powers  on  earth, 
wealth  and  rank.  All  present  had  had  their  glasses 
ready ;  Count  Hans  alone  had  hesitated  for  a  moment, 
and  had  then  remarked,  with  his  inimitable  smile, — 

"  Well,  let  us,  for  all  I  care,  drink  to  the  marriage  of 
the  Golden  Calf  to  the  Chimera."  And  when  every  one 
stared  in  blank  dismay,  he  added,  thoughtfully,  "  What 
do  you  think,  gentlemen,  is  it  a  marriage  of  expediency, 
or  one  of  love  ?  Capriani,  it  would  be  interesting  to 
hear  your  views  upon  this  question."  Then,  in  spite  of 
the  lowering  brow  of  the  host,  the  aristocrats  present 
burst  into  Homeric  laughter. 

At  that  moment  a  telegram  was  brought  to  the 
Count.  Why  did  his  hand  tremble  as  he  unfolded  it? 
He  was  accustomed  to  receive  telegraphic  messages : 

"There  has  been  an  accident.  Lato  seriously 
wounded  while  hunting. 

"  SELINA." 


"0  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  409 

An  hour  afterwards  he  was  in  the  railway-train. 

He  had  never  been  to  Dobrotschau,  and  did  not  know 
that  the  route  which  he  had  taken  stopped  two  stations 
away  from  the  estate.  The  Harfink  carriage  waited 
for  him  at  an  entirely  different  station.  He  had  to 
send  his  servant  to  a  neighbouring  village  to  procure 
a  conveyance.  Meanwhile,  he  made  inquiries  of  the 
railway  officials  at  the  station  as  to  the  accident  at 
Dobrotschau.  No  one  knew  anything  with  certainty: 
there  was  but  infrequent  communication  between  this 
place  and  Dobrotschau.  The  old  Count  began  to  hope. 
If  the  worst  had  happened,  the  ill  news  would  have 
travelled  faster.  Selina  must  have  exaggerated  mat- 
ters. He  read  his  telegram  over  and  over  again : 

"There  has  been  an  accident.  Lato  seriously 
wounded  while  hunting." 

It  was  the  conventional  formula  used  to  convey 
information  of  the  death  of  a  near  relative. 

All  around  him  seemed  to  reel  as  he  pondered  the 
missive  in  the  bare  little  waiting-room  by  the  light  of 
a  smoking  lamp.  The  moisture  stood  in  beads  upon 
his  forehead.  For  the  first  time  a  horrible  thought 
occurred  to  him. 

"An  accident  while  hunting?  What  accident  could 
possibly  happen  to  a  man  hunting  with  a  good  breech- 
loader  ?  If — yes,  if — but  that  cannot  be;  he  has 

never  uttered  a  complaint !"  He  suddenly  felt  mortally 
ill  and  weak. 

The  servant  shortly  returned  with  a  conveyance. 
Nor  had  he  been  able  to  learn  anything  that  could 
be  relied  upon.  Some  one  in  the  village  had  heard 
s  36 


410  "  0  THOU,  MY  A  VSTRIA  I" 

that  there  had  been  an  accident  somewhere  in  the 
vicinity,  but  whether  it  had  resulted  in  death  no  one 
could  tell. 

The  Count  got  into  the  vehicle,  a  half-open  coach, 
smelling  of  damp  leather  and  mould.  The  drive  lasted 
for  two  hours.  At  first  it  was  quite  dark;  nothing 
could  be  seen  but  two  rays  of  light  proceeding  from  the 
coach-lamps,  which  seemed  to  chase  before  them  a  mass 
of  blackness.  Once  the  Count  dozed,  worn  out  with 
emotion  and  physical  fatigue.  He  was  roused  by  the 
fancy  that  something  like  a  cold,  moist  wing  brushed 
his  cheek.  He  looked  abroad ;  the  darkness  had  become 
less  dense,  the  dawn  was  breaking  faintly  above  the 
slumbering  earth.  Everything  appeared  gray,  shadowy, 
and  ghost-like.  A  dog  began  to  bark  in  the  neigh- 
bouring village ;  there  was  a  sound  of  swiftly-rolling 
wheels.  The  Count  leaned  forward  and  saw  something 
vague  and  indistinct,  preceded  by  two  streaks  of  light 
flashing  along  a  side-road. 

It  was  only  a  carriage,  but  he  shuddered  as  at 
something  supernatural.  Everywhere  he  seemed  to 
see  signs  and  omens. 

"Are  we  near  Dobrotschau ?"  he  asked  the  coach- 
man. 

"  Almost  there,  your  Excellency." 

They  drove  through  the  village.  A  strange  fore- 
boding sound  assailed  the  Count's  ears, — the  long-drawn 
whine  of  a  dog, — and  a  weird,  inexplicable  noise  like  the 
flapping  of  the  wings  of  some  huge  captive  bird  vainly 
striving  to  be  free.  The  Count  looked  up.  The  outlines 
of  the  castle  were  indistinct  in  the  twilight,  and  hang- 


"O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  411 

ing  from  the  tower,  curling  and  swelling  in  the  morning 
air,  was  something  huge — black. 

The  carriage  stopped.  Martin  came  to  the  door,  and, 
as  he  helped  his  former  master  to  alight,  informed  him 
that  the  family  had  awaited  the  Count  until  past  mid- 
night, but  that  when  the  carriage  returned  empty  from 
the  railway-station  they  had  retired.  His  Excellency's 
room  was  ready  for  him. 

Not  one  word  did  he  say  of  the  cause  of  the  Count's 
coming.  He  could  not  bring  himself  to  speak  of  that. 
They  silently  ascended  the  staircase.  Suddenly  the 
Count  paused.  "It  was  while  he  was  hunting?"  he 
asked  the  servant,  bluntly. 

"  Yes,  your  Excellency." 

«  When  ?" 

"  Very  early  yesterday  morning." 

"Were  you  with  him?"  The  Count's  voice  was 
sharper. 

"  No,  your  Excellency ;  no  one  was  with  him.  The 
Count  went  out  alone." 

There  was  an  oppressive  silence.  The  father  had 
comprehended.  He  turned  his  back  to  the  servant,  and 
stood  mute  and  motionless  for  a  while.  "  Take  me  to 
him,"  he  ordered  at  last. 

The  man  led  the  way  down-stairs  and  through  a 
long  corridor,  then  opened  a  door.  "  Here,  your  Ex- 
cellency!" 

They  had  laid  the  dead  in  his  own  room,  where  he 
was  to  remain  until  the  magnificent  preparations  for 
his  burial  should  be  completed.  Here  there  was  no 
pomp  of  mourning.  He  lay  there  peacefully,  a  cross 


412  "O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA T 

clasped  in  his  folded  hands,  a  larger  crucifix  at  the 
head  of  the  bed,  where  two  wax  candles  were  burning 
— that  was  all. 

The  servant  retired.  Count  Hans  kneeled  beside  the 
body,  and  tried  to  pray.  But  this  Catholic  gentleman, 
who  until  a  few  years  previously  had  ardently  supported 
every  ultramontane  measure  of  the  reigning  family, 
now  discovered,  for  the  first  time,  that  he  no  longer 
knew  his  Pater  Noster  by  heart.  He  could  not  even 
pray  for  the  dead.  He  was  possessed  by  a  kind  of 
indignation  against  himself,  and  for  the  first  time  he 
felt  utterly  dissatisfied  with  his  entire  life.  His  eyes 
were  riveted  upon  the  face  of  his  dead  son.  "  Why, 
why  did  this  have  to  be  ? — just  this  ?" 

His  thoughts  refused  to  dwell  upon  the  horrible 
catastrophe ;  they  turned  away,  wandering  hither  and 
thither;  yesterday's  hunting  breakfast  occurred  to  him ; 
he  thought  of  his  witty  speech  and  of  the  laughter  it 
had  provoked,  laughter  which  even  the  host's  frown 
could  not  suppress.  The  sound  of  his  own  voice  rang 
in  his  ears :  "  Yes,  gentlemen,  let  us  drink  to  the  mar- 
riage of  the  Golden  Calf  to  the  Chimera." 

Then  he  recalled  Lato  upon  his  first  steeple-chase,  on 
horseback,  in  a  scarlet  coat,  still  lanky  and  awkward, 
but  handsome  as  a  picture,  glowing  with  enjoyment, 
his  hunting-whip  lifted  for  a  stroke. 

His  eyes  were  dry,  his  tongue  was  parched,  a  fever 
was  burning  in  his  veins,  and  at  each  breath  he  seemed 
to  be  lifting  some  ponderous  weight.  A  feeling  like 
the  consciousness  of  a  horrible  crime  oppressed  him ; 
he  shivered,  and  suddenly  dreaded  being  left  there 


"O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  413 

alone  with  the  corpse,  beside  which  he  could  neither 
weep  nor  pray. 

Slowly  through  the  windows  the  morning  stole  into 
the  room,  while  the  black  flag  continued  to  flap  and 
rustle  against  the  castle  wall,  like  a  prisoned  bird  aim- 
lessly beating  its  wings  against  the  bars  of  its  cage, 
and  the  dog  whined  on. 


CHAPTEE   XLIV. 

SPRING. 

A  FEW  days  afterwards  Lato's  body  was  consigned 
to  the  family  vault  of  the  Treurenbergs, — not,  of  course, 
without  much  funereal  pomp  at  Dobrotschau. 

With  him  vanished  the  last  descendant  of  an  ancient 
race  which  had  once  been  strong  and  influential,  and 
which  had  preserved  to  the  last  its  chivalric  distinction. 

The  day  after  the  catastrophe  Harry  received  a  letter 
from  Paula,  in  which,  on  the  plea  of  a  dissimilarity  of 
tastes  and  interests  which  would  be  fatal  to  happiness 
in  marriage,  she  gave  him  back  his  troth.  As  she 
remained  at  Dobrotschau  for  an  entire  week  after  the 
funeral,  it  may  be  presumed  that  she  wished  to  give 
her  former  betrothed  opportunity  to  remonstrate 
against  his  dismissal.  But  he  took  great  care  to  avoid 
even  a  formal  protest.  A  very  courteous,  very  formal, 
Very  brief  note,  in  which  he  expressed  entire  Bubmis- 

85* 


414  "  O  THOU,  MY  A  USTRIA  /•• 

sion  to  her  decree,  was  the  only  sign  of  life  his  former 
captor  received  from  him. 

When  Paula  Harfink  learned  that  Harry  had  left 
Komaritz  and  had  returned  to  his  regiment  in  Vienna, 
she  departed  from  Dobrotschau  with  her  mother  and 
sister,  to  pass  several  months  at  Nice. 

In  the  beginning  of  January  she  returned  with  the 
Baroness  Harfink  to  Vienna,  heart-whole  and  with 
redoubled  self-confidence.  She  was  loud  in  her  ex- 
pressions of  contempt  for  military  men,  especially  for 
cavalry  officers,  a  contempt  in  which  even  Arthur 
Schopenhauer  could  not  have  outdone  her;  she  lived 
only  for  science  and  professors,  a  large  number  of 
whom  she  assembled  about  her,  and  among  whom  this 
young  sultaness  proposed  with  great  caution  and  care 
to  select  one  worthy  to  be  raised  to  the  dignity  of  her 
Prince-Consort. 

Selina  did  not  return  with  her  mother  to  Vienna,  but 
remained  for  the  time  being  with  a  female  companion 
in  Nice.  As  is  usual  with  most  blondes,  her  widow's 
weeds  became  her  well,  and  her  luxuriant  beauty  with 
ite  dark  crape  background  attracted  a  score  of  admirers, 
who,  according  to  report,  were  not  all  doomed  to  lan- 
guish hopelessly  at  her  feet. 

Fainacky,  however,  was  never  again  received  into 
favour. 

Olga  retired  to  a  convent,  partly  to  sever  all  ties 
with  the  world,  which  had  misunderstood  and  maligned 
her  in  her  relations  to  the  part  she  had  played  in  tho 
fearful  drama  enacted  at  Dobrotschau,  partly  to  do 
penance  by  her  asceticism  for  Lato's  suicide,  which  was 


"O  THOU,  MF  AUSTRIA!"  415 

to  her  deep  religious  sense  a  fearful  crime,  and  of  which 
Bhe  considered  herself  in  some  measure  the  cause. 

Moreover,  Lato's  suicide  produced  a  profound  im- 
pres.sion  upon  all  his  friends.  Harry  could  hardly  take 
any  pleasure  in  his  freedom,  so  dark  was  the  shadow 
thrown  upon  his  happiness  by  grief  for  the  fate  of  his 
life-long  friend  and  comrade.  Under  the  circumstances, 
until,  so  to  speak,  the  grass  had  grown  over  the  terrible 
event,  his  betrothal  to  Zdena  could  not  be  thought  of; 
the  mere  idea  of  it  wounded  his  sense  of  delicacy.  He 
contented  himself,  before  returning  to  Vienna,  with  a 
farewell  visit  to  Zirkow,  when  he  informed  the  entire 
family  of  the  sudden  change  in  his  position.  The  major, 
whose  sense  of  delicacy  was  not  so  acute  as  his  nephew's, 
could  not  refrain  from  smiling  broadly  and  expressing 
a  few  sentiments  not  very  flattering  to  Fraulein  Paula, 
nor  from  asking  Harry  one  or  two  questions  which 
caused  the  young  fellow  extreme  confusion. 

The  major's  efforts  to  force  a  tete-d-tete  upon  the 
young  people  were  quite  vain.  Zdena,  when  Harry 
loft,  accompanied  the  young  officer  openly,  as  she  had 
often  done,  to  the  court-yard,  whore  she  stroked  his 
horse  before  he  mounted  and  fed  him  with  sugar,  as 
had  ever  been  her  wont. 

"  Good-bye,  Zdena,"  Harry  said,  simply  kissing  her 
cold  hand,  just  as  he  had  often  done  when  taking  leave 
of  her.  Then,  with  his  hand  on  the  bridle,  ready  to 
mount,  he  gazed  deep  into  her  eyes  and  asked,  "  Wheu 
may  I  come  back  again,  Zdena  ?" 

She  replied,  "  In  the  spring,"  in  a  voice  so  low  and 
trembling  that  it  echoed  through  his  soul,  long  after  he 


416  "O  77/0 C7,  MY  AUSTRIA!" 

had  left  her,  like  a  caress.  He  nodded,  swung  himself 
into  the  saddle,  turned  once  iu  the  gate-way  for  a  fare- 
well look  at  her,  and  was  gone.  She  stood  looking 
after  him  until  the  sound  of  his  horse's  hoofs  died 
away,  then  went  back  to  the  house  and  remained  in- 
visible in  ker  room  for  the  rest  of  the  forenoon. 

The  winter  passed  slowly.  In  the  cavalry  barracks 
in  Yienna  a  change  was  observed  in  Harry  Leskje- 
witsch.  He  began  to  be  looked  upon  as  a  very  earnest 
and  hard-working  young  officer.  His  name  stood  first 
among  those  for  whom  a  brilliant  military  career  was 
prophesied.  And,  oddly  enough,  while  there  was  a 
great  increase  in  the  regard  in  which  he  was  held  by 
his  superior  officers,  there  was  no  decrease  in  his  popu- 
larity with  his  comrades. 

The  youngest  good-for-naughts  did,  it  is  true,  reproach 
him  with  having  become  tediously  serious,  and  with 
great  caution  in  spending  his  money.  But  when  by 
chance  the  cause  of  his  sudden  economy  was  discovered, 
all  discontent  with  his  conduct  ceased,  especially  since 
his  purse  was  always  at  the  service  of  a  needy  comrade. 

When,  after  the  Harfinks  had  returned  from  Nice, 
he  first  met  Paula  in  the  street,  he  was  much  confused, 
and  was  conscious  of  blushing.  He  felt  strangely  on 
beholding  the  full  red  lips  which  had  so  often  kissed 
him,  the  form  which  had  so  often  hung  upon  his  arm. 
When,  with  some  hesitation,  he  touched  his  cap,  he 
wondered  at  the  easy  grace  with  which  the  young  lady 
returned  his  salute.  His  wonder  was  still  greater  when, 
a  few  days  afterwards,  he  encountered  Frau  von  Har- 


"0  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  417 

fink,  who  accosted  him,  and,  after  inquiring  about  his 
health,  added,  with  her  sweetest  smile, — 

"  I  trust  that  my  daughter's  withdrawal  from  her  en- 
gagement to  you  will  not  prevent  you  from  visiting  us. 
Good  heavens !  it  was  a  mistake ;  you  were  not  at  all 
suited  to  each  other.  We  shall  be  delighted  to  welcome 
you  as  a  friend  at  any  time.  Come  soon  to  see  us." 

If  Harry  were  changed,  Zdena  was  not  less  so.  She 
was  more  silent  than  formerly;  the  outbreaks  of 
childish  gaiety  in  which  she  had  been  wont  to  indulge 
had  vanished  entirely,  while,  on  the  other  hand,  there 
was  never  a  trace  of  her  old  discontent.  Indeed,  there 
was  no  time  for  anything  of  the  kind,  she  had  so  much 
to  do. 

She  had  developed  a  wonderful  interest  in  household 
affairs;  spent  some  time  each  day  in  the  kitchen,  where, 
engaged  in  the  most  prosaic  occupations,  she  displayed 
so  much  grace  that  the  major  could  not  help  peeping 
at  her  from  time  to  time.  And  when  her  uncle  praised 
at  table  some  wondrous  result  of  her  labours,  she  would 
answer,  eagerly,  "Yes,  is  it  not  good?  and  it  is  not 
very  expensive." 

Whereupon  the  major  would  pinch  her  cheek  and 
smile  significantly. 

Frau  Eosamunda  was  not  at  all  aware  of  what 
was  going  on  about  her.  She  frequently  commended 
the  girl's  dexterity  in  all  that  her  awakened  interest 
in  household  affairs  led  her  to  undertake,  and  after 
informing  the  major  of  his  niece's  improvement,  and 
congratulating  herself  in  being  able  to  hand  her  keya 
over  to  the  girl,  she  would  add,  with  a  sigh,  "  I  am 
bb 


418  "  O  THO U,  MY  A  USTRIA  I" 

so  glad  she  never  took  anything  into  her  head  with 
regard  to  Roderick.  I  must  confess  that  I  think  his 
sudden  disappearance  very  odd,  after  all  the  attention 
he  paid  her." 

The  major  would  always  sigh  sympathetically  when 
his  wife  talked  thus,  and  would  then  take  the  earliest 
opportunity  to  leave  the  room  to  "  laugh  it  out,"  as  he 
expressed  it. 

Thus  life  went  on  with  its  usual  monotony  at  Zirkow. 

Harry's  letters  to  the  major,  which  came  regularly 
twice  a  month,  were  always  read  aloud  to  the  ladies 
with  enthusiasm  by  the  old  dragoon,  then  shown  in 
part  to  Krupitschka,  and  then  left  lying  about  any- 
where. They  invariably  vanished  without  a  trace; 
but  once  when  the  major  wished  to  refer  to  one  of 
these  important  documents  and  could  not  find  it,  it 
turned  out  that  Zdena  had  picked  it  up — by  chance. 

At  last  the  spring  made  its  joyous  appearance  and 
stripped  the  earth  of  its  white  robe  of  snow.  For 
a  few  days  it  lay  naked  and  bare,  ugly  and  brown; 
then  the  young  conqueror  threw  over  its  nakedness  a 
rich  mantle  of  blossoms,  and  strode  on,  tossing  a  bridal 
wreath  into  the  lap  of  many  a  hopeless  maiden,  and 
cheering  with  flowers  many  a  dying  mortal  who  had 
waited  but  for  its  coming. 

Zdena  and  the  major  delighted  in  the  spring ;  they 
were  never  weary  of  watching  its  swift  work  in  the 
garden,  enjoying  the  opening  of  the  blossoms,  the  un- 
folding of  the  leaves,  and  the  songs  of  the  birds.  The 
fruit-trees  had  donned  their  most  festal  array;  but 
Zdena  was  grave  and  sad,  for  full  throe  weeks  had 


"0  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  419 

passed  since  any  letter  had  come  from  Harry,  who 
had  been  wont  to  write  punctually  every  fortnight; 
and  in  his  last  he  had  not  mentioned  his  spring  leave 
of  absence. 

In  feverish  impatience  the  girl  awaited  the  milk- 
man, who  always  brought  the  mail  from  X just 

before  afternoon  tea.  For  days  she  had  vainly 
watched  her  uncle  as  he  sorted  the  letters.  "'The 
post  brings  no  letter  for  thee,  my  love!'"  he  sang, 

gaily. 

But  Zdena  was  not  gay. 

This  afternoon  the  milkman  is  late.  Zdena  cannot 
wait  for  him  quietly ;  she  puts  on  an  old  straw  hat 
and  goes  to  meet  him.  It  is  nearly  six  o'clock;  the 
sun  is  quite  low,  and  beams  pale  golden  through  a 
ragged  veil  of  fleecy  clouds.  A  soft  breeze  is  blowing ; 
spring  odours  fill  the  air.  The  flat  landscape  is  won- 
drous in  colour,  but  it  lacks  the  sharp  contrasts  of 
summer.  Zdena  walks  quickly,  with  downcast  eyes. 
Suddenly  the  sound  of  a  horse's  hoofs  falls  upon  her 
ear.  She  looks  up.  Can  it  be  ?  Her  heart  stands  still, 
and  then — why,  then  she  finds  nothing  better  to  do 
than  to  turn  and  run  home  as  fast  as  her  feet  can 
carry  her.  But  he  soon  overtakes  her.  Springing 
from  his  horse,  he  gives  the  bridle  to  a  peasant-lad 
passing  by. 

"  Zdena !"  he  calls. 

"  Ah,  it  is  you !"  she  replies,  in  a  weak  little  voice, 
continuing  to  hurry  home.  Not  until  she  has  reached 
the  old  orchard  does  she  pause,  out  of  breath. 

"  Zdena !"  Harry  calls  again,  this  time  in  a  troubled 


420  "0  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!" 

voice,  "what  is  the  matter?  Why  are  you  BO — so 
strange  ?  You  almost  seem  to  be  frightened  I" 

"I — I — you  came  so  unexpectedly.  We  had  no 
idea "  she  stammers. 

"  Unexpectedly  1"  Harry  repeats,  and  his  look  grows 
dark.  "  Unexpectedly !  May  I  ask  if  you  have  again 
changed  your  mind  ?" 

Her  face  is  turned  from  him.  Dismayed,  assailed 
by  a  thousand  dark  fancies,  he  gazes  at  her.  On  a 
sudden  he  perceives  that  she  is  sobbing ;  and  then 

Neither  speaks  a  word,  but  he  has  clasped  her  to 
his  breast,  she  has  put  both  arms  around  his  neck,  and 
— according  to  the  poets,  who  are  likely  to  be  right — 
the  one  perfect  moment  in  the  lives  of  two  mortals  is 
overl 

The  spring  laughs  exultantly  among  the  trees,  and 
rains  white  blossoms  upon  the  heads  of  the  fair  young 
couple  beneath  them.  Around  them  breathes  the 
fragrance  of  freshly-awakened  life,  the  air  of  a  new, 
transfigured  existence;  there  is  a  fluttering  in  the 
air  above,  as  a  cloud  of  birds  sails  over  the  blossom- 
laden  orchard. 

"Zdena,  where  are  you?"  calls  the  voice  of  the 
major.  "Zdena,  come  quickly!  Look!  the  swallows 
have  come !" 

The  old  dragoon  makes  his  appearance  from  a 
garden-path.  "  Why,  what  is  all  this  ?"  he  exclaims, 
trying  to  look  stern,  as  he  comes  in  sight  of  the  pair. 

The  young  people  separate  hastily;  Zdena  blushes 
crimson,  but  Harry  says,  merrily, — 

"Don't  pretend  to  look  surprised;  you  must  have 


«  O  THO  U,  MF  A  USTRIA  l»  421 

known  long  ago  that  I — that  we  loved  each  other." 
And  he  takes  Zdena's  hand  and  kisses  it. 

"  Well,  yes ;  but "  The  major  shrugs  his  shoul- 
ders. 

"  You  mean  that  I  ought  to  have  made  formal  appli- 
cation to  you  for  Zdena's  hand  ?"  asks  Harry. 

The  old  officer  can  contain  himself  no  longer ;  his  face 
lit  up  by  the  broadest  of  smiles,  he  goes  to  Zdena, 
pinches  her  ear,  and  asks, — 

"  Aha,  Zdena  1  why  must  people  marry  because  they 
love  each  other,  hey  ?" 


CHAPTEE    XLV. 

OLD  BARON  FRANZ. 

OLD  Baron  Franz  Leskjewitsch  had  changed  greatly 
during  the  past  winter.  Those  who  saw  most  of  him 
declared  that  he  was  either  about  to  die  or  was  growing 
insane.  He  moved  from  one  to  another  of  his  various 
estates  more  restlessly  than  ever,  appearing  several 
times  at  Yorhabshen,  which  he  never  had  been  in  the 
habit  of  visiting  in  winter,  and  not  only  appearing 
there,  but  remaining  longer  than  usual.  There  was 
even  a  report  that  on  one  occasion  he  had  ordered  his 
coachman  to  drive  to  Zirkow;  and,  in  fact,  the  old 
tumble-down  carriage  of  the  grim  Baron  had  been 

36 


422  "  O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA  !" 

seen  driving  along  the  road  to  Zirkow,  but  just  before 
reaching  the  village  it  had  turned  back. 

Yes,  yes,  the  old  Baron  was  either  about  to  die  or 
was  "  going  crazy."  There  was  such  a  change  in  him. 
He  bought  a  Newfoundland  dog,  which  he  petted  im- 
mensely, he  developed  a  love  for  canary-birds,  and, 
more  alarming  symptom  than  all  the  rest,  he  was 
growing  generous  :  he  stood  godfather  to  two  peasant 
babies,  and  dowered  the  needy  bride  of  one  of  his 
bailiffs. 

In  the  beginning  of  April  he  appeared  again  at  Vor- 
habshen,  and  seemed  in  no  hurry  to  leave  it. 

The  day  after  Harry's  sudden  arrival  at  Zirkow,  the 
old  man  was  sitting,  just  after  breakfast,  in  a  leather 
arm-chair,  smoking  a  large  meerschaum  pipe,  and  lis- 
tening to  Studnecka's  verses,  when  the  housekeeper 
entered  to  clear  the  table,  a  duty  which  Lotta,  the 
despot,  always  performed  herself  for  her  master,  per- 
haps because  she  wanted  an  opportunity  for  a  little 
gossip  with  him. 

Studnecka's  efforts  at  entertainment  were  promptly 
dispensed  with,  and  the  old  Baron  shortly  began, 
"  Lotta,  I  hear  that  good-for-naught  Harry  is  in  this 
part  of  the  country  again  ;  is  it  so  ?" 

"  Yes,  Herr  Baron  ;  the  cow-boy  met  him  yesterday 
on  the  road,"  replied  Lotta,  sweeping  the  crumbs  from 
the  table-cloth  into  a  green  lacquered  tray  with  a 
crescent-shaped  brush. 

"  What  is  he  doing  here  ?"  the  old  man  asked,  after 
a  pause. 

"  They  say  he  has  come  to  court  the  Baroness  Zdena." 


"O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  423 

uOh,  indeed!"  The  Baron  tried  to  put  on  a  par- 
ticularly fierce  expression.  "  It  would  seem  that  since 
that  money-bag  at  Dobrotschau  has  thrown  him  over, 
he  wants  to  try  it  on  again  with  the  girl  at  Zirkow,  in 
hopes  I  shall  come  round.  Oh,  we  understand  all  that." 

"  The  Herr  Baron  ought  to  be  ashamed  to  say  such 
things  of  our  Master  Harry,"  Lotta  exclaimed,  firing 
up.  "However,  the  Herr  Baron  can  question  the 
young  Herr  himself;  there  he  is,"  she  added,  attracted 
to  the  window  by  the  sound  of  a  horse's  hoofs.  "  Shall 
I  show  him  up  ?  or  does  the  Herr  Baron  not  wish  to 
see  him  ?" 

"  Oh,  send  him  up,  send  him  up.  I'll  enlighten  the 
fellow." 

In  a  few  moments  Harry  makes  his  appearance. 
"Good-morning,  uncle!  how  are  you?"  he  calls  out, 
his  face  radiant  with  happiness. 

The  old  Baron  merely  nods  his  head.  Without  stir- 
ring from  his  arm-chair,  without  offering  his  hand  to 
his  nephew,  without  even  asking  him  to  sit  down,  he 
scans  him  suspiciously. 

With  his  hand  on  his  sabre,  Harry  confronts  him, 
somewhat  surprised  by  this  strange  reception,  but  no- 
wise inclined  to  propitiate  his  uncle  by  any  flattering 
attentions. 

"  Do  you  want  anything  ?" 

«  No." 

"  Indeed  ?    You're  not  short  of  money,  then  ? 

"On  the  contrary,  I  have  saved  some,"  Harry  re- 
plies, speaking  quite  after  his  uncle's  fashion. 

"  Ah !   saved  some,  have  you  ?     Are  you  growing 


424  "  0  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA  /" 

miserly? — a  fine  thing  at  your  age!  You  probably 
learned  it  of  your  financial  acquaintances,"  the  old 
Baron  growls. 

"  I  have  saved  money  because  I  am  going  to  marry, 
and  my  betrothed  is  without  means,"  Harry  says, 
sharply. 

"  Ah !  for  a  change  you  want  to  marry  a  poor  girl ! 
You  display  a  truly  edifying  fickleness  of  character. 
And  who  is  the  fair  creature  to  whom  you  have  sacri- 
ficed your  avarice  ?" 

"  I  am  betrothed  to  my  cousin  Zdena." 

"Indeed? — to  Zdena?"  the  Baron  says,  with  well- 
feigned  indignation.  "Have  you  forgotten  that  in 
that  case  I  shall  disinherit  you?" 

"  You  will  do  as  you  choose  about  that,"  Harry  re- 
plies, dryly.  "  I  should  be  glad  to  assure  my  wife  a 
pleasant  and  easy  lot  in  life ;  but  if  you  fancy  that  I 
have  come  here  to  sue  for  your  favour,  you  are  mis- 
taken. It  was  my  duty  to  inform  you  of  my  betrothal. 
I  have  done  so ;  and  that  is  all." 

"  Indeed  ?  That  is  all  ?"  thunders  old  Leskjewitsch. 
"  It  shall  be  all  I  "Wait,  you  scoundrel,  you  good-for- 
naught,  and  we'll  see  if  you  go  on  carrying  your  head 
so  high !  I  will  turn  the  leaf:  I  will  make  Zdena  my 
heiress, — but  only  upon  condition  that  she  sends  you 
about  your  business.  She  shall  choose  between  you — 
that  is,  between  poverty — and  me !" 

"  It  will  not  take  her  long.  Good-morning."  With 
which  Harry  turns  on  his  heel  and  leaves  the  room. 

The  old  Baron  sits  motionless  for  a  while.  The  mild 
spring  breeze  blows  in  through  the  open  windows; 


«O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!"  425 

there  is  a  sound  in  the  air  of  cooing  doves,  of  water 
dripping  on  the  stones  of  the  paved  court-yard  from 
the  roof,  of  the  impatient  pawing  and  neighing  of  a 
horse,  and  then  the  clatter  of  spurs  and  sabre. 

The  old  man  smiles  broadly.  "  He  shows  race :  the 
boy  is  a  genuine  Leskjewitsch,"  he  mutters  to  himself, 
— "  a  good  mate  for  the  girl !"  Then  he  goes  to  the 
window.  Harry  is  just  about  to  mount,  when  his  uncle 
roars  down  to  him,  "  Harry !  Harry !  The  deuce  take 
you!  are  you  deaf?  Can't  you  hear?" 

Meanwhile,  the  major  and  his  niece  are  walking  in 
the  garden  at  Zirkow.  It  was  the  major  who  had  in- 
sisted that  Harry  should  immediately  inform  his  uncle 
of  his  betrothal. 

Zdena  has  shown  very  little  interest  in  the  discus- 
sion as  to  how  the  cross-grained,  eccentric  old  man 
would  receive  the  news.  And  when  her  uncle  sud- 
denly looks  her  full  in  the  face  to  ask  how  she  can 
adapt  herself  to  straitened  means,  she  calmly  lays  her 
band  on  the  arm  of  her  betrothed,  and  whispers,  ten- 
derly, "You  shall  see."  Then  her  eyes  fill  with  tears 
as  she  adds,  "  But  how  will  you  bear  it,  Harry  ?" 

He  kisses  both  her  hands  and  replies,  "  Never  mind, 
Zdena;  I  assure  you  that  at  this  moment  Conte  Capriani 
is  a  beggar  compared  with  myself." 

Just  at  this  point  Frau  Eosamunda  plucks  her  spouse 
by  the  sleeve  and  forces  him,  nolens  volens,  to  retire 
with  her. 

"I  cannot  understand  you,"  she  lectures  him  in 
their  conjugal  tete-d-tete.  "You  are  really  indelicate, 

36* 


426  "  0  THOU,  Mr  A  USTRIA  I" 

standing  staring  at  the  children,  when  you  must  see 
that  they  are  longing  to  kiss  each  other.  Such  young 
people  must  be  left  to  themselves  now  and  then."  At 
first  Frau  Kosamunda  found  it  very  difficult  to  assent 
to  this  rather  imprudent  betrothal,  but  she  is  now  in- 
terested in  it  heart  and  soul.  She  arranges  everything 
systematically,  even  delicacy  of  sentiment.  Her  exact 
rules  in  this  respect  rather  oppress  the  major,  who  would 
gladly  sun  himself  in  the  light  and  warmth  of  happi- 
ness which  surrounds  the  young  couple,  about  whose 
future,  however,  he  is  seriously  distressed,  lamenting 
bitterly  his  own  want  of  business  capacity  which  has 
BO  impoverished  him. 

"  If  I  could  but  give  the  poor  child  more  of  a  dowry," 
he  keeps  saying  to  himself.  "  Or  if  Franz  would  but 
come  to  his  senses, — yes,  if  he  would  only  listen  to 
reason,  all  would  be  well." 

All  this  is  in  his  thoughts,  as  he  walks  with  his  niece 
in  the  garden  on  this  bright  spring  forenoon,  while  his 
nephew  has  gone  to  Vorhabshen  to  have  an  explana- 
tion with  his  uncle.  Consequently  he  is  absent-minded 
and  does  not  listen  to  the  girl's  gay  chatter,  the  outcome  • 
of  intense  joy  in  her  life  and  her  love. 

The  birds  are  twittering  loudly  as  they  build  their 
nests  in  the  blossom-laden  trees,  the  grass  is  starred 
with  the  first  dandelions. 

Harry  is  expected  at  lunch.  The  major  is  burning 
with  impatience. 

"  One  o'clock,"  he  remarks.  "  The  boy  ought  to  bo 
back  by  this  time.  What  do  you  say  to  walking  a 
little  way  to  meet  him?" 


"0  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA]"  427 

"  As  you  please,  uncle,"  the  girl  gaily  assents.  They 
turn  towards  the  house,  whence  Krupitschka  cornea 
running,  breathless  with  baste. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  the  major  calls  out. 

"Nothing,  nothing,  Herr  Baron,"  the  man  replies; 
"  but  the  Frau  Baroness  desires  you  both  to  come  to 
the  drawing-room ;  she  has  a  visitor." 

"  Is  that  any  reason  why  you  should  run  yourself 
BO  out  of  breath  that  you  look  like  a  fish  on  dry 
land?"  the  major  bawls  to  his  old  servant.  "You 
fairly  frightened  me,  you  ass  I  "Who  is  the  visitor?" 

"Please — I  do  not  know,"  declares  Krupitschka, 
lying  brazenly,  while  the  major  frowns,  saying,  "  There's 
an  end  to  our  walk,"  and  never  noticing  the  sly  smile 
upon  the  old  man's  face. 

Zdena  runs  to  her  room  to  smooth  her  hair,  tossed 
by  the  breeze,  while  the  major,  annoyed,  goes  directly 
to  the  drawing-room.  He  opens  the  door  and  stands 
as  if  rooted  to  the  threshold.  Beside  the  sofa  where 
Frau  Rosamunda  is  enthroned,  with  her  official  hostess 
expression,  doing  the  honours  with  a  grace  all  her  own, 
sits  a  broad-shouldered  old  gentleman  in  a  loose  long- 
tailed  coat,  laughing  loudly  at  something  she  has  just 
told  him. 

"  Franz !"  exclaims  Paul  von  Leskjewitsch. 

"  Here  I  am,"  responds  the  elder  brother,  with  hardly- 
maintained  composure.  He  rises;  each  advances  to- 
wards the  other,  but  before  they  can  clasp  hands  the 
elder  of  the  two  declares,  "  I  wish,  Paul,  you  would 
tell  your  bailiff  to  see  to  the  ploughing  on  your  land 
That  field  near  the  forest  is  in  a  wretched  condition, — 


428  "O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA!" 

hill  and  valley,  the  clods  piled  up,  and  wheat  sown 
there.  I  have  always  held  that  no  military  man  can 
ever  learn  anything  about  agriculture.  You  never  had 
the  faintest  idea  of  farming."  And  as  he  speaks  he 
clasps  the  major's  hand  and  pinches  Harry's  ear.  The 
young  fellow  has  been  looking  on  with  a  smile  at  the 
meeting  between  the  brothers. 

"I  understand  you,  uncle:  I  am  not  to  leave  the 
service.  I  could  not  upon  any  terms,"  the  young  man 
assures  him, — "  not  even  if  I  were  begged  to  do  so." 

"  He's  a  hard-headed  fellow,"  Baron  Franz  says,  with 
a  laugh;  "and  so  is  the  girl.  Did  she  tell  you  that 
she  met  me  in  the  forest?  "We  had  a  conversation 
together,  she  and  I.  At  first  she  took  me  for  that  fool 
Studnecka ;  then  she  guessed  who  I  was,  and  read  me 
such  a  lecture !  I  did  not  care :  it  showed  me  that  she 
was  a  genuine  Leskjewitsch.  H'm!  I  ought  to  have 
come  here  then,  but — I — could  not  find  the  way;  I 
waited  for  some  one  to  show  it  to  me."  He  pats 
Harry  on  the  shoulder.  "  But  where  the  deuce  is  the 
girl  ?  Is  she  hiding  from  me  ?" 

At  this  moment  Zdena  enters.  The  old  man  turns 
ghastly  pale ;  his  hands  begin  to  tremble  violently,  as 
he  stretches  them  out  towards  her.  She  gazes  at  him 
for  an  instant,  then  runs  to  him  and  throws  her  arms 
around  his  neck.  He  clasps  her  close,  as  if  never  to 
let  her  leave  him. 

The  others  turn  away.  There  is  a  sound  of  hoarse 
sobbing.  All  that  the  strong  man  has  hoarded  up  in 
his  heart  for  twenty  years  asserts  itself  at  this  moment. 

It  is  not  long,  however,  before  all  emotion  is  calmed, 


"O  THOU,  MY  AUSTRIA  I"  429 

and  affairs  take  their  natural  course.  The  two  elderly 
men  sit  beside  Frau  Kosamunda,  still  enthroned  on  her 
sofa,  and  the  lovers  stand  in  the  recess  of  a  window 
and  look  out  upon  the  spring. 

"  So  we  are  not  to  be  poor,  after  all  ?"  Zdena  says, 
with  a  sigh. 

"It  seems  not,"  Harry  responds,  putting  his  arm 
round  her. 

She  does  not  speak  for  a  while ;  then  she  murmurs, 
softly,  "  'Tis  a  pity :  I  took  such  pleasure  in  it  I" 


THE   END. 


Pm«TiD  iv  J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY,  PHIIADCLMM* 


BY  JULIA  HELEN  TWELLS,  JR. 

A  Triumph   of   Destiny. 

I2mo.     Cloth,  deckle  edges,  $1.25. 

"  It  is  a  book  of  uncommon  characters  and  end-of-century  problems ;  a  story 
of  strength  told  with  interest  and  conviction.  .  .  .  The  book  is  well  worth  reading." 
—Philadelphia  Press. 

"  Miss  Twells  is  evidently  a  woman  of  extensive  mental  resources,  who  thinks 
deeply  and  clearly.  Her  story  commands  admiration  and  consequent  attention 
from  the  first.  There  are  not  many  characters,  but  about  the  few  are  clustered 
events  of  significance,  and  their  relation  to  each  other  and  to  their  own  individual 
development  is  analyzed  with  strength  and  clearness." — Washington  Times. 


BY  MRS.  OLIPHANT. 

The  Unjust  Steward. 

I2mo.     Cloth,  $1.25. 

"  We  have  an  admirable  study  of  an  old  Scotch  minister  oppressed  by  the  con- 
sciousness of  a  very  venial  fault  in  a  small  financial  transaction.  The  tone  is  one 
of  cheerful  humor,  the  incidents  are  skilfully  devised,  verisimilitude  is  never  sacri- 
ficed to  effect,  every  episode  is  true  to  life." — Philadelphia  Press. 


BY  ARTHUR  PATERSON. 

For   Freedom's  Sake. 

I2mo.     Cloth,  $1.25. 

"  The  subject-matter  of  this  book  is  the  desperate  battle  between  freedom  and 
slavery  for  possession  of  Kansas.  One  of  the  strongest  characters  introduced  is 
old  John  Brown.  A  charming  love  story  is  naturally  incidental,  and  the  element 
of  humor  is  by  no  means  lacking."— New  York  World. 


J.  B.  L1PPINCOTT  COMPANY,  PHILADELPHIA. 


By  Amy  E.  Blanchard. 

Betty  of  Wye. 

With  illustrations  by  Florence  P.  England. 
Cloth,  $1.25. 

"  It  is  the  story  o  .and  girl  who  grows  from  a  turbulent  girl  into  a 

loving  and  lovable  »  e  book  gives  many  suggestions  that  will  help  a 

reckless  girl  to  see  the  ..      ../  and  value  of  a  knowledge  of  conventionalities  and 
obedience  to  accepted  standards." — New  York  Outlook. 


Two  Girls. 

With  illustrations  by  Ida  Waugh. 
I2mo.     Cloth,  $1.25. 

"  '  Two  Girls'  is  a  very  pretty  domestic  tale,  by  Amy  E.  Blanchard.  The  title 
indicates  its  character—  the  story  of  the  lives  ol  two  girls.  'I  hey  are  gins  of 
entirely  different  temperament,  and  the  lessons  deducted  from  their  respective 
experiences,  and  the  manner  in  which  each  met  the  daily  troubles  and  tribulations 
of  early  life,  make  the  book  one  of  more  than  ordinary  importance  to  the  y<  ung, 
nnd  especially  to  young  girls  It  is  a  story  with  a  moral,  and  the  moral,  if  rightly 
followed,  cannot  fail  to  influence  the  lives  of  its  readers.  The  two  girls  are  of 
American  product  and  the  plot  is  laid  in  Southwestern  territory.'  —St.  Paul 
Dispatch. 

Girls  Together. 

With  illustrations  by  Ida  Waugh. 
Cloth,  $i.  25. 


"  Here  is  a  story  so  realistic,  detailed,  and  full  of  youthful  sentiment  and  enthu- 
siasm that  it  must  be  one  of  the  pieces  of  literary  work  which  seem  '  easy'  but  are 
in  reality  so  difficult  to  achieve.  It  is  the  sort  of  description  that  girls  dearly  love 
to  read,  and  is  wholesome  in  tone  and  wide  awake  in  the  telling."  —  Portland  Press. 


Blanchard  Library  for  Girls. 

TWO   GIRLS. 
GIRLS  TOGETHER.      BETTY  OF  WYE. 

3  volumes  in  a  box.     Illustrated.     Cloth,  $3.75. 


J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY,  PHILADELPHIA. 


A-         "•"'•in  miiiim 
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